The Home Poem

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There surely is no place like home,
where you can take a hot bath in bubbles and foam,
to walk in and say, “Hi honey, I’m home,”
and kiss your sweetheart and sing the sweet Shalom.

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You may travel the seas and climb the high peaks,
watch golden sunsets and stars leave their streaks.
Your car may have stalled on a cold winter night,
too far to walk home and no moon for a light;
and there you sit in the deep winter freeze,
listening to branches crack in the breeze.

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Wherever you are, your thoughts are never too far
from the crackling fire and a sweet chocolate bar,
from the couch by the window with your cashmere shawl,
where you read a book on a rainy day in fall.

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Yes, the world is full of adventures and delight,
yet a home always awaits, as dawn follows night ~
a piano in your living room longing for your hands
to sing sweet melodies across distant lands.

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When your feet are worn out and muscles do ache,
think of that pie that is ready to bake.
Oh, how much time you spend at home;
so much of our life lives in that poem.

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Where dreams can be dreamt
and our last penny spent;
where you can lie in bed on that Sunday morn,
feeling the warm sun being reborn.

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Where the smell of coffee and muffins baking
dissolves our turmoil and all else that is aching;
where we can laugh and play,
and shout, “What a beautiful day!”

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Where our kids can build that secret fort
and hide, pretend ~ yet they always resort
to return to only that place
where they feel your warm embrace.

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When you make your call,
they drop all their games and run down the hall.
Food for the soul you serve in that bowl,
and smile as you see their heavenly glee.

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There surely is no place like home,
where you can take a hot bath in bubbles and foam.

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