There is house on the edge of what once was 
And what never will be
Built on the delicate long-woven fabric of time itself

There is a table forever being set
There is a saucepan simmering on the fire
There is a pot of tea that has been steeping
There is a generous spread laid out and waiting
Waiting

Waiting for a friend to arrive after an errand
Waiting for a partner to return home with fresh fruit
Waiting for a sister to visit and complain about her week
Waiting for a mother to drink tea and rest her aching feet
Waiting for a grandpa back from scans at the hospital

There is an eternal anticipation
That flutters the curtains and shakes the walls awake
This room full of everything that ever happened
Lies so empty at the same time

One word: 
Home

A place that never existed in isolation
A symbol of the beauty and agony of perspective 
A shrinking of life to a single room
A room nestled between rooms
A house between houses
A neighbourhood between towns 
A town between cities 
A city between the mountains and the ocean

A house on the edge of what once was 
And what never will be

For now it is home