~Home?~

With no markers, signs or guidance,
nothing steady,
little sure
nothing certain left to cling to
in the glassy, silent nights,

How is the wayward heart to know
the safest place to rest?

Holding hands with
worries in the darkness,
chasing teardrops with a fervor
strong as any human sleep,

How is the wayward heart to know
the safest place to trust?

Once its bed is made
with wagon wheels
in forest paths,
in darkened, raucous byways
where no certain man may go,

How is a heart
to find itself
at home?