The Home

These strands I strum,

six strings from the fabric

woven with notes

that would, some day, make 

the symphony I'm yet to compose, grow;

a poem I am yet to write, sing;

the brew I am yet to drink, read;

yet to... yet to....

It stretches from my seat,

where I rest 

breathing heavily,

perhaps sighing,

with my back to the wall,

no, it's a pillar.

It ends on the ideology

that makes you a teacher now.

Strung and tuned, softly, 

it is ready for music;

the songs are stubborn, still;

and lightning throws a tantrum, again!

Then, in my peripheral vision 

the respite arrives, holds me firm,

the rain-kissed canopy in green,

and a life-drenched heart in red. 

-- Leslie