I fled like smoke from a fire -
rising black and curling white
into the first available stretch of sky.
I put my faith in fixed foundations.
But the earth quakes against closed eyes;
steam spindrels of dream/spite
escape and frame most of my nights
into that old farmhouse
with the porch light left on.
For Helen's "home" prompt (I wrote about a past home) at Real Toads. AND it's 55 words for the Flash Fiction 55 party going on over at Word Garden.