I heard from a red-breasted small bird
“Home is where your home is.”
As he perched on my fingers,
This tiny beast of dirt.
When trees were tipped with leaves
Of burning scarlet
From the oxygen of Autumn

I could’ve broken his neck
Had he not just said
“Home is where your home is”, right then.
So I made a home in my head
Decided to settle within
With the Robin, who never questioned it.

As the years progressed,
My home too stone for a Robin Red-Breast,
I tore from my sanctuary,
Thought it best.

But when there’s a salt in the breeze,
Fires within the fields,
A red-breasted small bird appears to me.
Whisperedly;
“Home is – where your home is?”

“A place where I can see the stars.
Instead of guilt tripping on the stones,
That I kick up at the stars.
The stones that I kick up at the stars.
Stones that I kick up at the stars –
– stones that I kick up at the stars –
– trip over the stones, that I kick up at the –
– stones that I kick over the stars –
– kick over stones, and I trip over the stars.”