Home on the Range
Oh, give me a home
where the windows won’t close,
and there’s wall-to-wall carpet of weeds no one mows,
where the lighting is solar, when the ceiling’s not stars,
and you can get there by foot, but there’s no path for cars.
And let me rest in a bed,
of dry leaves and duff,
and think of how nothing can be more than enough.
Let my only plumbing be rocks and a spring,
and the only evening news be what the birds sing.
Let me leave boards for fences
inside of the trees.
Let wild space be my blinds when I want privacy.
I’ll dig in the humus and see what roots linger,
when I want the whole World Wide Web at my fingers.
Sure I can’t own a place,
that already owns me,
but I’ll still mind the mortgage compassionately.
So before I die, I can write in my will,
“Kids, you were born with nothing-- you have most of it still...”