I Am A Writer

I will write of home forever in all the ways I know how, in words, only as a beginning. I know loss, we all know loss, and our lives have become allegories of homelessness, of the futility of the material, the fallibility of humanity, and yet, and yet I am in love with this dirty world, broken world, hellbent child of a world.
I am in love.
What can I do but write of home to the child, in scrubbed floors and meals cooked, in humility and confessions, in honesty and confusion, with a slow sorrow and hopeful heart? I am writing a letter penned in minutes and days and years, and mornings when the light rises and the birds wake me, I say, "Look!," with the rest of the astonished world, and sink my feet into slippers and beauty.
There is this:
a breath,
a soul tied to a body,
a restless heart,
and souvenirs of home scattered willy-nilly over the earth.
I will slip the pieces in my pockets as I find them; I will take rubbings of the proof and fold them into stuffed pockets.
I will write of home until I am.