I need an old oak tree, with space around it to inhale; not too much to ask for. I can’t breathe in neighborhoods. Can’t feel the gritty earth pressing up through my toes. It takes an old farmhouse to hold me in its stories – one of many who have gone before. I need to find a place called home.

Cast from a twisted Eden long ago, unable to tell holy from profane, I don’t acknowledge the hunger anymore. It’s broken legacy costs too much.
But this ache for home slid in through the cracks, bitter and demanding. Jaw clenched, I stand frozen; nowhere to hide, nowhere left to run.