It holds rivers that curve and reach like poison oak vines,
dying on a tree, at the end of summer
It beats a steady song, like drums that sound hollow
Its mountains reach as high as the white moon
Its canyons are as deep as an ocean
crafted by the rain
Its forests are as thick as my favorite book
that never ends
My heart listens to nature, holding the sounds of butterfly wings beating
Its borders are drawn with my imagination
My heart is as open as a marigold that closes at night
My heart knows where home is, and that is where I am happy
On the map of my heart, home is marked with my family