Home is Where You Are -

I was born
where the road was dust—
Janowicze—
a handful of houses,
and left at five
in a horse-drawn cart,
the smell of hay and hope
mixed together.

We rolled toward Białystok,
where the world began to widen,
and I first learned
that leaving
is another name for beginning.

Years later,
New York taught me
how to stand tall among strangers,
how winter sharpens the will.

In Florida,
I learned salt and sunlight,
how palms bend
and still survive the storm.

Seattle whispered
the art of reinvention—
the gray that polishes the soul,
the kindness of moss
after rain.

And now—
the Sonoran Desert—
its long silences,
its open hand of light.
Here, I listen again.

Each landscape
has left its print—
a word, a breath,
a rhythm.

Moving through them all,
I’ve become fluent
in belonging.

Home—
is not a single door,
or street,
or memory.

It’s the quiet gift
of being present,
of meeting the day
wherever it finds you,
and calling that place
enough.