The scent of the pages of fifty-year-old books
up in the cold
up,
Your breaths twirling up,
Crackling fireplaces and collapsing logs
The scrunching snow underneath your steps
Mulled wine and its sweet heat on your tongue
Rabbit footprints and paths guarded by evergreens
The hissing noise of water thrown on the stove
The dripping sound of droplets coming down
from gutters
The shy hues of birches waking up
from slumber
The sound of lawn mowers in the early heat
The hungry scent of the first barbeque
Exhilarated shrieks of children let loose on the yards
Wheat crops brushing against your bare leg
Hands of clocks ticking while sunsets linger
Gentle fingers picking wild strawberries on the
outskirts of meadows
Pebbles stinging, wandering barefoot
Splashes of cool water enveloping your body
The weight of ripe apples falling,
thump,
thump
The rustle of warm colors fallen on the ground
Tickling blankets, the taste of warm, sweet tea and honey
And everyday, with a whoosh, golden adventure lines cut up the blueness above
and then slowly evaporate
Because when it comes down to it, it’s always good to be back home
