Soft as silk,
both to touch and to smell.
Colors soft as pastel;
some a pink, others a white, and a few a little yellow.

They are home,
they are the very thing that brings me home.
I only know of one place,
where these soft things grow.

Some say it is paradise,
a vacation they would love to take.
Beaches and palm trees,
coconuts and leis.

It is none of these things to me.
It is family and adventures,
swimming and cookouts,
so many things it is,
things I can call home.

It is time away for me too,
coming back home is painful too.
My flowers can't be grown here,
only the orange trees.

They die and wither,
black and brown,
no longer sweet and soft,
but ugly and crude.

So I go home,
always home,
to my soft and sweet,
to my family and palm trees.