There is a clock whose silent staccato whispers with each footstep.

There is a house from which you’ve journeyed, hunting a new sunrise.

Each day searching for what made sense the day before.

Each moment craving to return to the warmth of home.

The crackle of firewood. A hot cup of coco. Cozy blankets that cast away the cold.

Murmured conversation and the clinking of dinner plates.

The times you’ve felt home are rare, like a Crimson Rosella, fluttering about in the wild.

I’ve found it in a person before.

I’ve lost it too.

Truth be told, I haven’t learned much from my footsteps on this planet.

But, I have come to know one thing.

It’s not about the future.

It’s about where you are.

Don’t hike mountains, in the hopes of a better sunrise.

Hold fast to those ones around you,

The ones who make you feel at home.