Not a building,

Or just memories,

It’s not a country,

Or a tribe.

 

It is not prejudice,

With directions included,

Or instructions,

To whom I should marry or not.

 

Home is not one place,

Or an image,

Or smell, or sound,

I once loved,

Or thought I did.

 

Home is not identikit,

But does show where I’ve been,

Or my family has come from,

In the past.

 

If my home burns down tonight,

And I wake with my new toothbrush,

On my friends couch,

Will I still have a home? An identity?

 

Home is my soul,

Both yesterday and today,

Seeking and living out life,

And reaching for and new image of home.

 

I am a stained glass window,

Each piece telling and retelling my story,

In new light,

As the morning breaks.

 

Knowing all may change again.