My favorite part of my home is if you stand

at the bottom of my kitchen steps

looking towards the front door at around 8PM

when the traffic returns home from their workday

my disco ball chandelier confetti’s my foyer

with dance party festivities.

My favorite part of my home is

if you sit on my back deck under my ancient oak

while the chickens are bathing in the dirt or

scratching where my Hosta’s used to grow and bloom

you can hear St. Thomas on one side, 4^th Reformed

greeting midday with their church bells

My favorite part of my home is

if it rains, any amount at all, the basement

because of the slope of our just under quarter acre,

floods rudely sopping the carpet

but not the floor unless it’s a ridiculous amount

which you’d know nothing about here.

A favorite part of my home is found,

almost as much and as frequently,

as the obligatory Kawphy

served in: brewed, pour-over, cappuccino, or Keurig,

because one type isn’t enough when you love it,

are the multitude of teas that can be brought to life

nearly as instantly as the hot pot can boil.

My favorite place in my home is my mailbox.

I feel like “Walking on Sunshine” knowing maybe…

That today might be the day that one of several

who write me frequently may have done so.

They never fail to lift my spirits, bring me joy,

remind me that I matter in the great white north,

in the deep rainy south, in the breezy southwest,

No matter what or where, I am uplifted in their love.

My second favorite part of my mailbox is the flag.

When I see it up, then down, knowing maybe…

they will also know they are loved by me unequivocally.

Another favorite part of my home is my studio

It is my place of solace and solitude

where I can stretch my head and heart

to write whimsical or paint darkness.

I can embrace the mood of muse intimately

without pride or caution as she warms me thickly.

But what I love more than any of those things,

what gives me purpose to breathe life into the walls,

to shovel out the walk for the fourth time today,

to sort the recycling and the trash every Wednesday night

are my family.

Punky the Chihuhua, Herbie the turtle,

Louise, Fifty, Julie, Roy, and Maude the chickens,

(Two of which are indoor and wear diapers)

Our pet Human, Will, that I found on a street corner,

guitar strapped to his back as he headed out to busk

one freezing sunny snowy Sunday morning a couple of years ago.

Back then, he asked for a warm place to sleep for the night,

he’s never left and I don’t want him to, neither does Ben.

Without Ben the Great or me, we aren’t the we,

that make our Home at Kawphy Hill