Broken & Beautiful Things
I want to build a home,
Of doors & walls & closets with winter coats,
Of icy toes on cold Tuesday morning hardwood,
Of slow coffee sips in sync with the breeze blowing in.
Yes, I want a home,
But more than I want a home I can touch,
I want a home that won’t turn to ashes in a fire,
A home that won’t have a “for sale” sign planted in the sun-dried lawn.
A home that can’t be ruined or sold.
Because I talked with the dictionary last week
& he whispered
“home is just
Where you live from,
permanently”
No wooden frame can promise me that.
I want warmth & creaks
& broken things & beautiful things
& peekaboo light & an always invitation
to “come in”
to see these broken & beautiful things inside.
No address needed.
My heartbeat will be enough to let you know you’ve found it.
My eyes as the door, open & inviting,
Please don’t knock—just come as you are,
I promise I have dirt on my feet
To match your own.
Perhaps you can wash mine & I’ll wash yours.
My hands as the windows,
Curtains drawn,
Offering light to the forgotten corners.
No, I don’t want to hide anymore.
Turns out I always get found.
No, I don’t want to pretend that
There are not cracks in my foundation,
& that the lamp in the bedroom doesn’t flicker.
Aren’t you tired too,
of hiding & pretending?
Come & rest with me.
With a wink I will usher you in &
We can be okay,
Maybe even solaced,
With our broken & beautiful things.