inner art journal

I moved my small blue leather rocking chair
into the empty back yard chicken pen
I rocked and ate raisins
the sole resident of
my first home

home is not where I was born.
home is not where I lived.
home is not my things.
the anchor of circumstances is not home.
freedom is my home.

it has taken a lifetime to find
the home in my mind
where no one can disturb me
without my permission