there is no home but your heart.

even the ocean
which draws the poison from my soul
like a poultice

cannot house the furniture of my life
nor shelter the delicate china of my work.

i am indigent without your love.

the source of my poems
is not the sea, not the sky ~

though the breadth of these
is a glimpse
of the face of god…

no, the source of poetry
is not an expanse of blue
nor an unfathomable depth

but instead the soft fresh green
of the garden
blossoming in the chamber of your heart

where i live.