Those who stay at home must fret
to see the travellers come and go,
to rest as plants with roots are set
to bear their foliage of woe.
Woe it seems at times to be
with thoughts like sighs of leaning pines–
with eyes as blowing winds must see
or those whom no fixed root confines.
Many a one bound down by gates
that close them in with love and need,
with chafing mind in port stagnate
as ship at anchor gathers weed.
Days there are when other ships
draw in to taunt a landlocked crew
with brilliant cities, dazzling trips,
and more exotic towns they knew.
Love your home you restless ones–
to have a home is the prize least prized.
See how soon the wanderer comes
to embrace the house he once despised.
Source: “Family, My Home” by Amy McGrath
