Gypsy Homebound

Heart is where my home finds graceful relationship, where my soul simply IS, my memories of becoming, of being at my best, sometimes my worst, but always my most full, complete, most abundantly contentious and content. Home unveils life's liturgy. This home where I was conceived and born has rebirthed me each dawn and decomposed through all my dream time, where I grew up and out, where brother moved away from where I was married, from where I buried my grandparents, and then my parents. As my body houses identity my home houses body. While home and self-identity can be distinguished one from the other, this is never a benign or wisely severing discrimination; better as a distinction without prospects for contented difference, dishearted separation. My soul and mind and body fade and wilt withdrawn by force and circumstance from embryonic being. To awaken or sleep away in any profanely alien place, without power or even hope to return to more sacred memoried space, fades my eyes and ears and nose, my skin down to my spinal bones, despair this senseless loss of sense of life and breath and bread that once was mine and could be mine to share again. My home is where I live my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly on my backyard river of memory, greeting ducks and swans herons and eagles soaring by to hunt this fertile rippling home with me now fading into memory as memory shades to sympathy and apathy, and apathy to this sad self-isolation from my heart's dismembering womb. Lavish price for a new bodied home invites sublimating new with best familiar practices and intents, artifacts of golden memories from past days and life and home, reframed by unfamiliar but gracefully welcoming trees and birds and weeds.