What is Home?

What is home?
by Dusty Wallace

The people that live here,
whose souls permeate all--
that maple I know,
its knots and nooks and crannies--
the rhododendron on the hill,
cardinals that call it home--
the berry patch along the trail,
bears that gorge on its fruit--
the brook that lulls me to sleep,
its trout that grace my plate--
the chestnuts littering my yard,
providing feast for squirrel and deer--
the mushrooms that grow,
all shapes, sizes, and toxicity.--
the leaves that turn,
which I rake into colorful mounds--
the sun that peeks over the horizon,
lighting the valley sky ablaze--
the people that die here,
whose souls permeate all--
this place that I’m from,
this place that’s part of me--
this is home.