It’s a word you know right down to the bone,
Monosyllabic with so much undertone.
And it makes the wine taste sweeter, food richer.
And it paints with each exhale the perfect picture.
Sometimes you let the word rest on your chest;
Find the slot in your ribs where it fits the best.
Sometimes you hide it in fear it will be found
By other eyes, by your eyes, by those not around.
It is a word that you dream of in lucid color
And walk among its letters like with a lover,
But the embrace of it is warmer—that of a mother;
You wake from it, bereft, looking for another.
And when another speaks the word same as you,
When the arch of syllable sounds bold and true:
The word becomes more. The person the same.
And that word will slowly become their name.
It’s a word that you know right down to the bone
And that word is simple;
It is home.