The comfort of this place
reminds me of another 

Time expands like a rubber band 
stretching and shooting me back
forty, fifty years

with its darkened cushions
wilted lace curtains
musty and dirty at the edges
the large kitchen holds memory

hand stains have
cured the wainscoting
aromas remain from the 
everydayness of breakfasts, 
lunches, dinners, 
cookies, cakes,
spilt juices, and burgundy wine.

This moment
I return to the past.

Home is where I hang my hat,
the kitchen is where I leave my heart.
                        

Surely, I can find a haven
in this turbulent world
where I may live in silence, if I choose,
make a pot of soup, someone will enjoy 
write my soul in sand, on paper, 
or etch into my skin,
worried and warranted, or giddy,
words, in time to be released,
like in a hot air balloon
rising untethered
up and up, to the sky.