It is winter. It falls. It is not yet spring.
Twilight dances from dawn to dusk. It is morning. It is evening. It is mid-afternoon.
There is sunshine on my window. There is a lamp shining softly through and out of the day. It was raining. It will rain again. It may be raining now.
There is coffee in a mug to the left of me. It is always there from the moment I rise until the moment I sleep. Sometimes it tastes like whiskey.
There is something of soul and strings on the stereo and it drives me to work and to play and to sit and do nothing but stare at clouds caressing the mountain.
These words fall like so many other melancholy ramblings that have come before them, but they are deeper than that. They are the edge of my contentment and the threat of pending comfort. They are fresh water over old grounds and a cup that never empties.
It is a safe place within these walls. There is love, peace and lingering laughter. There is warmth and a view and a fire always burning. It feels very much like a thing called home.
Originally published on WhitHonea