At Curry Lane and Frances Street
A chartreuse bungalow sits
Behind a white picket fence,
Bougainvillea branches arching overhead.
Gate swings on rusty hinges
Its song plaintive yet welcoming.
Bags dropped at the old porch door
Key in lock, I am home.
Like an impatient child with an advent calendar,
I open all windows at once.
Gentle breezes rustle palm fronds
Twilight crickets chirp.
Dusk wears the perfume of plumeria and jasmine.
I feel my skin come alive again
In the dew-drenched air.
I breathe in renewal,
In this place of sanctuary,
Where my feet are not bound by the rule of gravity,
I am most joyously, deeply, rooted.