If it's the whiff of homemade soup in my sleep,
Or the sprays of taupe orchids that line the way.
If it's lazy cloudless days on a straw mat with Milo,
Or Jobim at some absurd hour on Sunday mornings.
If it's the frequent insanity occurring simultaneously in 3 rooms,
Perhaps even the sanctuary of one's own bath tub.
If it's hours around the dining table devouring someone else's stories,
Or legs dangling from the granite counter.
I'd say the wintery nights huddled in one bed watching b-grade films,
And summer evenings with lychees and sparkling wine.