I pull the outdoor world in.
Place it in baskets, in jars, in any container it will fit.
I hang it from the walls, stack it high atop old books, I surround myself.
I pick and choose tiny trinkets that have a history far beyond my own and I bring works of others hands in to feel their company.
I barter, I find, and I fill this tiny space. Piece by piece by peace.
I find comfort in the surroundings of green, and tend to them as if they are children. Each frond, each petal, each bract and blade. Cool water when they're hungry, light when they lean, space when their roots are ready.

I cling to the art that sews my heart.
Put it behind walls of glass, in places nails will hold.
Each brush of paint, stroke of pen, stamp of ink, spooned into my morning coffee
and as I spin the blinds and direct the light, I let my own leaves turn.

I pull Indy to my lap, and Frank, with a flip of her nose, tricks my hand to the top of her brow.
Here I am home.
Here I am right.
and each of us, we fill our space.