Sunk into an overstuffed couch
in a room not quite cozy.
Hot tea and Arabic poetry
speaking politics and loneliness.
Crescent moon outside, turned upward to refill
not quite illuminating the snow, though doubled by the plastic winter window.
The house plants and I and these yellow walls are hungry for sun
and some warmth to paint all the little hairs golden against our skin.
My heart feels tenderly here in this place,
not quite yet home.

2.24.2015 - Folsom Farm

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