I'm home where the air is cold and the ground is hard.
I've got my spattered tibetan painting hanging above the bed
and nag champa burning in my aloe plant.
not like the mountain aloe that burns red in the west.
but this is home just the same.
this harlem haven with cherry wood floors
and a baby singing in the room right next to mine.
i miss the warm of romo street and the fire pit
once the baby's asleep.
life is springing up out of eucalyptus trees
and running in electric shocks under out metropolis.
my impulses cross synapses and i wake up under
the orange tree out back.
nerve endings are feeling the cold.
no numbness here. home is where the air is cold,
and family is where the grasslands stretch on forever.