The Burrow

home

Such a coming and a going has been the month of May at The Burrow.

And still.

She is sturdy
and lovely.

A study in contrasts.

New mulch in some beds.
Wild maroon roses
vibrant against
the stark black of the mulch.

Weedy patches
below the trampoline.

Two newly welcomed residents
of the chicken coop.
Their own solar powered lights
blinking on at dusk.
Vincent Van Gogh & Picasso,
the arrivals pre-named,
unaware of the
unnecessary aesthetic glow,
but I notice
and smile.

Closets incapable of
containing
all the seasons
of a bulky
western wardrobe.
Its contents
spilling and piling
onto the floor.

Tomorrow’s project.
Tomorrow oh tomorrow.
All the past tomorrows
of actual years
avoiding a weekend’s task.

The kitchen
never closes.
The tea kettle ever at the ready.

The door always open
to family
and friends,
strangers even.

The Burrow.
Home.
A welcome respite.
A cozy landing.
Spaces designated
for curling up
for watching
for reading
for eating
for sleeping
for chopping and serving
and resting and talking.

An island in the storm.
A refuge
I hope
to the many who enter
and the few who stay.

To all of the above.

I am grateful for
the Burrow.

Aptly named.
Endlessly treasured.

Not what I imagined.
Precisely what I needed.