Dreams of Home

Home— will infect whatever you do.
—David Byrne, "Home"

I've got tangled dreams of home.
A jumble of yesterday and today.
The house is of my childhood,
The brown siding and blue shutters.
The maple tree up in front,
The oak tree down in back.
The rooms exactly as I remember:
The dance of light and dark,
The gewgaws and spices just so.
Mom and Dad are still together,
Grandma's alive and whole for now.
Often my girls are playing outside,
Though they've never visited this house
Sold long before they were born.
I go there in my sleep,
The muscle memory so easily familiar.
No need to concentrate on navigation.
Freeing me to worry the knots
Of conversations, emotions, impossible to unravel.
Each time I yearn for resolution,
But the dreams are always interrupted.
I'm confused a moment. Eyes focusing,
I see this home I've made
And am relieved to be here.

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