Hours of road monotony
the GPS, a self-imposed dictatorship
tired, bored, no more beauty in the snow...
then
a private gateway;
a much anticipated spectacle:
The Inn.
A compelling magnificence.
No need for a color, a shade, or hue;
a winter embrace of splendor;
the smolder of her fireplace:

I feel home.

Spacious beyond the eye's capacity,
not at all an inn of limits;
high-risers' luxury at hand;
many may deem impersonal,
out of futile habit:
This, a B&B?

I feel home.

Eloquent, the host; the hostess: of elegance.
The puppy - acts like one yet outsizes me.
Struck by grave illness, the eldest feline
each night, in my Victorian space.
She, too, will break hearts, never to replace the pieces.
Just like my Russian Blue, Duman.

A mere three days' span
filled with seeing
listening
inhaling
that authentic self
outside its rushed and rushing
fragmented and fragmenting
judged and judging
tested and testing
shell-self.

I am home.