They say home is where you hang your hat
but an internal finger scratches my head at that.
My hats have been hung and strewn all about,
certainly enough places to raise a small doubt,
as I uproot and then land and then once again roam
I’ve yet to find one place that just shouts, “You’re home!”
The ubiquitous “They” say home is where the heart is.
The fickle heart, really? Such an unreliable quiz.
My home would reside one day in the clouds
and the next be completely lost in the crowds,
for my mercurial heart flies to the ends of extremes
and anywhere in between nightmares and dreams.
At-homeness eludes me like a small speck of oil
racing ’round in hot water that’s just come to a boil.
Dorothy Gayle repeated, “There’s no place like home,”
and Scarlett agreed with her fist full of loam
that land becomes home through blood, sweat and toil,
yet I find myself doubtful that home involves soil.
Home seems to sail like a boat on the changing seas
weighing anchor a while, and then follows the breeze
as the billowy sails adjust to a virgin direction.
Wherever God blows on this mercator projection
I’ll know I am home, though the wind blows and does toss,
when I know my one shelter is an Old Rugged Cross.