the sound of a small engine

i enjoy reading books

inside

with the windows open

i want to hear the day at ease

maybe not to be 

in it.

On foreign soil,

this america

i'm never at home.

she asked me  "what does home feel like?"

"warm... comfortable... familiar..?"

i don't know, because i have never been.

home to me is to read about the way the pines move

on the breeze in Aix

home to me is the sound of a small engine 

quickly in the street of a northern town

home is a bicycle locked to a fence

a missing key.

the shimmer on the starling's back

the sun, warmer now

moves across the lawn.

still, smoke moves into the daylight

 from the chimneys of the homes down the hill,

and i stay here

because it reminds me of someplace i have never been.