Sometimes, it is coral tulips blooming in the spring

When everything else is a cold touch

In the winter.

 

Sometimes, it is someone.

A crippling longing for hands and eyes

That feel so distinct,

You could tell them apart from millions.

 

Other times, it is somewhere.

On the horizon,

Where the pine and the grass find shelter

In the same place as that house

You feel safe in.

 

Perhaps, it is a fine line.

That fine line where the sun 

Meets the sea,

Like firecrackers to

Tranquility,

Swallowed by the earth,

Until it is, yet again,

Rebirthed.

​

And even then, with all the 

Places and people

Swarming the earth as 

Bees do in a hive,

Choosing someone 

Or somewhere

To be your home

Is a privilege 

Touched by man, 

Though it is pure.