A short poem about the love of home, inspired by Claude Monet’s ‘A Haystack’:

They say ‘Home is where the heart is’,

but where does the heart lie?

Does it beat beneath rolling green hills,

where animals graze and birds soar.

Does it quicken at the aroma,

of mother’s homemade soups?

My heart beats alongside my mother’s,

alongside my father’s.

Pumping and seeping,

across the rolling hills,

bleeding into soft padded skies,

blotching out every corner of my world.

My heart,

my blood,

my life,

beats through love.

Taking her rest,

at home.

Love finds respite,

in laughter with friends,

in family hugs,

in knowing looks,

and shared smiles.

Love finds home.

When my heart,

ruptures.

She is ripped from her home.

seizing,

tightly grasping,

to return.

Her shock cuts valleys,

as mother waves goodbye,

as friends cry,

as promises,

turn sour.

Even if, just for a moment.

Until the constricted heart,

turns your vision blurry.

Breaking anchored dams,

heart’s sorrow,

bleeds,

hot and heavy on your face.

But as rivers run,

seasons change,

once strong dams,

grow old and dry.

So too does the heart,

scab and clot over the pain.

At once,

the heart is old and new,

vulnerable and strong.

As home grows old,

and becomes new,

fading into hope and memory.

Home becomes heart.

Home becomes love.

Stretched and scarred.

Reaching to blot out,

and drown,

amongst the sadness.

Both sorrowful and joyful.

Both here and gone.

Forever buried,

beneath rolling hills.

Forever soaring,

within padded skies.

Image: Boulevard Des Capucines via their website: Claude Monet Gallery