Not a House, But a Home

I was born of creek rock, Indian Soap, and chigger patches

Raised up on the dancing embers

Of a burning hot stove making dry wood

A work of art with its fiery touch

And burning appetite

I am the twang at the back of the throat

That sounds like banjoes in a july festival

Learned out of me by my hunger for a proper education

Until I fill my fuel tank with Kentucky water and shining moons

Bourbon truths on full moon liquor

The echo of generation upon generation

Rising up like muddy water

In the Kentucky River, rain drops falling

Making her grow fat and furious

The spring mud slides and roads buckling

Under the shifting weight

Of all that change

I am birthed in the firecracker pop

Of a February freeze

Winter’s fourth of July declaring

Independence from all the safety of warmth

And modern civilization

I am born of the tree frog song croaking out

On a creaking night and Katie-dids doing

What Katie-dids do, firefly Morse code

Two blinks, one blink, two blinks

Katie-did songs and tree frog revelations

A summer night on lock eight road

I am the home of all these stories

As much as they are mine

Little trailer with the built up room

And the porch light burning defiant against the night

Not a house but a home.

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