Praise For Home by Anne Born - Poem

Praise waking up on an icy Michigan morning,

Tucking my shoulders back under the quilts,

The rain from last night slipping off the leaves.

A lone Carolina Wren is my alarm clock.

Praise the squirrel storing too many walnuts, each bigger than its head,

Where they won’t be found until a generation forward

Has fresh walnut trees of its own,

And has no idea they came from my forgetful fat squirrels.

Praise the last of the colorful trees,

The brazen maples set against the dark pines,

Their leaves falling on well-mown green lawns, now swaths of yellow and orange.

Blood red bushes still line the yards, standing guard.

Praise the stillness of the cemeteries.

It is their season now, late October becoming fall, dying into winter.

I’ll lay my bright orange marigolds on a grave and light tealights.

My parents are there.

Praise the city workers who collect raked leaves.

Their leaf machine is a roving mechanical elephant,

Clearing the curbs with its fat snout.

A few missed leaves will stick to the wet pavement.

Praise the sleek black cat, reclining on the front stoop.

Keeping watch over the paper mill offices.

It glared at me when I drove by last week,

Daring me to shoo it away.

Praise the deer and the forests and the lazy river,

The wild geese are all gone now.

Praise the natural world that surrounds my built one,

My refuge, my sanctuary.

Praise home.