No map shows the street
where this house stands secretly,
full of light and music,
no street runs away from this home
that does not pass it by on all sides
and arrive, though travelers wander
in search, looking always too far,
consulting signs and charts,
sometimes asking directions
to this house that stands, full
of candlelight and song.
All the doors go in. People have
searched yet no one has ever left
its many mansions, or been outside,
ever, even those who never go
into their room and close the door,
this house of ordinary things, light
on windowsills, small voices, a cup,
a little bread, and kin who cherish you.
Everyone in it wanders searching for the house
they're in, where always, in this house,
this house of yours, you belong,
You may sit anywhere you like. It's yours.
Every time you find you're in it,
we have a party.
September 12, 2019