This Home

This home

I built from the ashes,

the lemon tree now blistering with fruit,

waiting for spring’s warmth to come fully alive.

What a woman lives here!

All her winters and aching bones bathed in hope’s broth.

The fog clears.

This is the long last temple of my healing.

This is where my soul becomes rest and remembered.

This is where calloused fingers finally release their memory.

Nothing to hold on to anymore.

Fear nestled in by the bedside,

all of it my own.

Nothing left for wanting except the certain uncertainty of everything worth claiming as mine.

- I have made it home.

- Clare Johnson