I dream of wood floors.
Floors that carry a history and a voice.
Floors that talk back to you,
teach you things,
cry to you.
Floors that are always too cold in the winter.
Floors that hold a soft finish, worn with wear.
Floors that are bruised and scarred.
Floors that lead to the narrow space between you and I.
I dream of old metal.
Fires and steam.
Iron and copper.
I dream of pipes that sing and sizzle.
Pipes that tell the stories.
Shhhhhh…
I dream of stairs that creak
with long banisters running away from you.
Stairs that have seen the feet of many.
Stairs that know a loafer then and now.
Stairs that revel every late night visitor,
revel every sinner.
Stairs that lead me to the floors and the pipes,
warn them of my coming.
I dream of our place.
Between the floors and the pipes and the stairs.
Between old furnaces and stoves that breathe fire.
Our place.
A place where books come to live.
Books with a scent, a smile, a sorrow and a story.
A place of whispers but no secrets.
Our place.
Filled with aromas, beautiful experiences hanging in the air and over the dinner table.
A place of laughter and voices,
of love and comfort.
Take me to that place.
It is too far from here.
Take me to that place.
And leave me not alone.
Take me to that place,
our place.
Within the Whiteness of the Womb 
You yearn for hearth and home, a space of internal harmonies perfectly mirrored in external context.
There’s an extra button backed leather chair in my library hardly anyone sits in. Some days my eyes pass easily over it, glad that it’s empty, and that all the tea’s just for me. Other nights I can’t help but wonder if somebody will ever find an ideal place there. Of those that I do think of, that chair would cradle you surprisingly well.