Bad Poetry for the Soul

I have held a starfish of the coast of California.

Tamed a rattlesnake in Texas.  

Touched the greenest clover in Ireland.

Drank velvet wine in Tuscany.

And tasted the salty sea of the Atlantic from the sunny coves of Finisterre.

Drank brandy as it ran through the streets of Santiago.

Been a fish in the crystal oceans of Mexico.

And through it all and over again I finally come to understand that home is still the nicest sight.

That the welcoming hand of friendship will keep you warmer than the strongest fire.  That my mother's awkward smile in a photo is more genuinely kind than the outstretched hands of the statues at St. Peter's.  More than the ocean's tide trapped in the echo of a shell, the sound of Emily snoring leaves me in wonder of the great mystery of life.  All these struggles, all these stamps, these tears of joy, pain, and love are mine. Made of me, and perhaps only to me will all of this ever matter.  I leave it now, but know too true that my heart wise and wide with experience and life beats today because of the family I have left behind.  Because of the friends who have held me up along the way.  And this journey is the journey of life, and is only complete by returning back to them.