past all of the corn

when there is an extra burst of light in the noticeably dark restaurant,
once
and then twice,
just for a few seconds at a time,
coming from somewhere i can not place
and i ask my companions
what is that light?
and h says
the back door, at the same time that p says
the heavens opening up
and we all laugh

the hugeness of the red pink gold blue sky cradling me as I pedal home past all of the corn, and upon entering the wooded path the light fades so much so that the fireflies become the
flashing bike lights
of the fairies

things/ways to make a home

how I am struck
with tenderness towards the
arrangement of objects
that i’ve just arranged on the
small white shelf of a
small white bookcase,
as i step back to look at how it appears from
further away

a bell, a glossy brown seed of a lucuma fruit, a rusty metal figurine of kokopelli, a watercolor of a purple cloud, a letter, handkerchief, poem, feather, harmonica, a shell

how i am looking at the list I made four days ago: things/ways to make a home,
feeling good that i had done many (if not all?) of the things i had written in just a few hours, but wondering if they are actually enough

                  make some kind of arrangement of sentimental objects
                  write every night
                  arrange special lighting (candles?)(good lamps)
                  have a meditation spot/writing spot
                  hang up poems/ art
                  ferment some vegetables

the way the tiniest piece of dried sage
burns in the new room
in the new house
and i gently wave it around the scattered piles of clothes whose places i haven’t yet found