Poetry
My Home
My home.
I am not sure why I have such an attachment to it.
Not been painted for a decade.
For some reason, for some or the other reason.
The decade-old paint has peeled off most walls,
there is light-green moss gathering in moist corners.
Cobwebs, I dust them off most of the time,
but the spiders don’t like losing their habitat,
and I don’t like them taking over my habitat,
so, I must dust them off.
Some tiny spiders come crawling back again,
to design their delicate cobwebs all over,
then it is time to dust them again,
and this goes on till we both live.
Old furniture, old cabinets, old dressers, old bookshelf,
an ordinary but good kitchen full of supplies,
a quiet, refreshing terrace,
balconies habituated by all kinds of wasps.
Yet, there is a lot of peace, light,
and a sense of belongingness,
I cannot express in words.
Every afternoon, every evening, night, and morning
I feel that internal content
I cannot express in words.
The presence of someone whose legacy all this is,
I cannot express in words.
My home.
Copyright © 2023 — A.H. Mehr
