acres of home

my parents’ bedroom has this great
view of whitewashed: garage, barn,
silo, fields, sky. junker cars half
buried under snow drifts, head
light peeking out like a toddler
behind a safety gate (let me out,
mommy). i’m older each time i come
back here, but the scenery never
changes, rewinding me to thirteen
years old, learning how to be
the woman i am today. I look
around, out the window, to see
what the farmland is telling me.
i can hear it now, and it says:
welcome home.