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October 28, 2007Home.
I feel sorry for people that don't know what the word means.
Not from a literal standpoint, but rather from the emotional/psychological/spiritual one.
Because if you have a place that you call Home, with a capital H, then everything else just falls into place.
I recently did my master's thesis about Texas-born writer Katherine Anne Porter and stumbled across a poem she wrote in 1940 after a brief visit back home. Porter spent most of her life living anywhere but Texas, and yet she knew that only it was home.
Only it felt like home.
Only it would she ever call home.
I've been working this week from home, and yes, I too, know deeply what the word means.
The poem is called "Anniversary in a Country Cemetery."
This time of year, this year of all years, brought
The homeless one home again;
To the fallen house and the drowsing dust
There to sit at the door,
Welcomed, homeless no more.
Her dust remembers its dust
And calls again
Back to the fallen house this restless dust
This shape of her pain.
This shape of her love
Whose living dust reposes
Beside her dust,
Sweet as the dust of roses.
Posted by Lara Richards at 09:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
