What I Think of When I see Ashes

Home.
It's a strange word.
Some think it's a place, but not me.
If home is a place, call me homeless.
No, home is your hair.
These deep brown pieces of perfection.
These stories waiting to be told.
The bad ones can be cut so that better ones grow.
To me home is your skin.
Home is a quilt of scars and freckles 
Stitched with patterns of grace and glory.
Home.
My home has an accent that melts your heart.
It is the only place that makes me feel whole.
When I leave home
I pray that it's there when I return
But my home is as free as the wind.
That's what I love about home.
Sometimes when I cannot see my home
I feel like something is just missing.
Then I remember what they say
And how true it really is,
"Home is where the heart is."