Belonging

There are so many places I could be
And look around me saying this is home.
In many varied sorts of company
I feel content, and should not need to roam.
Yet every place that could be home to me
Is not the others, and so incomplete;
For such an infinite variety
Filled with so much that's kind and warm and sweet,
Means everywhere I am I can still see
Another home to which I could return.
Each home I have could just as easily
Be where I'm not, and therefore where I yearn
To be, and to come home: there is no rest
Until one home defines itself as best.