A patio for chipmunks, squirrels
and a hollow in the pillow 
where Jasmine slept, an ice machine
grinding its cold, endless chill.
A sectional with room for every
visitor, a pot of coffee always brewing.
In every room, a blanket and a pillow, 
as if sleep were something we could give away.
 
My home must be a place
where children’s laughter 
is the antidote
to every shame and guilt, 
a never-ending reason to return,
frogs stitching the rain with sound.
 
I keep the doors unlatched
trusting what belongs here enters,
and what leaves carries
some trace of this place with it,
cool glass, shade, the hush of fabric,
the faint, lingering ghost
of jasmine in the air.