This is my home where the warmth on the hearth is not a propane chunnel of histling wisp blue not some leathery buttprint left in a wingback chair not a dangling kite piece swooning out of reach like a fiery meadow ablaze oh no, no, no. My home is the depth of blue azure rekindling beneath an armpit for the fifty-third reading of Lassie after a warm bath and turning the page confident that he'll "come on home, boy".