By Amy Chapman

Hallowed is that exhale
when the walls breathe good evening
and the windows rattle brightly,
despite their old panes.

The kettle sings her aria,
the tea things clink and clamor.
Books stand sentient, revered soldiers in a row,
and the pillows sag softly,
maternal bosoms plumped just so.

Dusk to dawn, comfort swells
oh, the joy of being home.
The great beyond is black and bleak,
but here is haven tried and true.