it is still my home,
and now holds this summer of heat,
a new cat in the shadows of the yard,
and a robin standing in the shade of the hackberry tree,
right where he stood weeks ago
when i first figured a way to hang a water sprinkler in its branches
and let it rain.
right there on one of the roots that is impossible to mow around.
my home has dreams and open doors,
sueños y puertas abiertas y más;
last night the dream was owls in trees,
the feel of those trees with owls aboard,
branches bending low before untamed breezes,
green leaves glowing under the night's wind filled sky,
and it was home.
que era mi casa.
it was the streets around me,
not ending at my door,
and there was real rain in my dream,
and there was real rain outside.
the ground was still damp when i awoke,
and it was still home.