I folded the note up four times, into a perfect square- the kind of note you pass back and forth in high school hallways, stick into locker slots only to have them fall among the clutter at the bottom. That's where this note belongs- forgotten under unused textbooks and dirty gym clothes until summer release finally frees it, unread, into a pile of community trash.

home.

home is where the river flows
humming through the willows.
home is milkweed in your hair,
with hemlock moss your pillows.
home, if only you could know,
is anyplace I see you-
it's in your heart
and from the start
I've known my home would be you.

-grande pierre

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

--W. B. Yeats