a poem about coming home

When does home

stop feeling like home?

Is it when

the gruff men in reflective vests

come to cut down

the big tree

where the woodpeckers and crows

make their homes?

Is it when

all colour is bleached

from the walls:

green becomes white,

blue becomes grey,

purple becomes brown.

Is it when the rooms

that you grew up in

become unrecognizable?

Is it when

you leave

at 18

to go to school

so that one day

you, too, can buy a home

just like this one?

Is it when you don’t return

and instead make your home

elsewhere;

anywhere?

What if

it was never home

to begin with?