Rice and Rain

Luscious green leaves cast shade over concrete. The palm frons litter the dirt and the grass, splashing vibrant browns inbetween tropical emeralds. Rain from the stars break the serenity and tackle the smoke.

It is always darker when I walk inside, and the scent always hits me afterward. It is cloth, it is fur, but never is it leather.

Marked on my skin is always a smell of bamboo and water, and on my palate the taste of grain, steamed and humid.

The soil beneath my feet centers me, and just so for my mind is dizzy, delighted.

It delights in the aroma of earth and clay, and of rice cooker soon to signal dinner.

These are my visions of home.

How I long to return and to stay.