Not all places will grow into you.
You have to let them settle and negotiate,
the place and you,
till both decide where, if at all,
they may meet, uninhibited.
Places have souls too.
Empty rooms are full of waiting
till the right tenancy arrives.
Floors cannot rebel and ricochet under
your feet but to have them
yield to you in love is fortune.
A surface, crack, bolt, switch
can be stubborn, hostile till you summon
empathy to touch,
and read their frayed longings,
braille-like on fingertips.
You must be grateful if corridors
usher you along, if windows freely give way
to light and air, if
shadows protect you from the
excesses of truth, if the murmurs
of blinds keep you safe like
vigilant fathers across distances.
You must give yourself up
to a place before it can take you in.
Once the choice has been made,
the heart written over
with a kiss, even the final
scattering from an urn shall be
a planting in dear love’s name.
- from Stitching a Home (2021)