If ever I were asked what home is to me, I would use the words of W. H. Auden, because home, this blog, is really just this:

“…and love, sing all the birds, are what matter:
what I dared not hope or fight for
is, in my fifties, mine, a toft-and-croft
where I needn’t, ever, be at home to

those I am not at home with, not a cradle,
a magic Eden without clocks,
and not a windowless grave, but a place
I may go both in and out of.”

from Thanksgiving for a Habitat, W. H. Auden