Who Makes the Home

What is a home?  Is it built by a man
with the skills of the trade
and the hands that are taught to be firm,
to be true, that be said
are the masters of craft and of love?
Could it be it was made
not by him, but by them who did live
in the house, and did bade
all who entered into their beloved,
in their hallowed, firm walls?
Or perhaps it’s created from not
them, but rather it falls
to the habit, a knack to return
to a place on the earth.
So wherever you go, in your mind
is affixed on the worth
of the present location you dwell,
not the place of your birth,
for the past is destroyed.  It’s the now
in the which lives our mirth.

(For those who care: except for the first line, this was written entirely in an anapestic meter—this is the unstressed-unstressed-stressed meter—each line alternating between trimeter and dimeter.  I rather like the music the anapest has, and it’s much easier for me to write than trochee.  As for the poem itself, it’s clumsier than I would prefer.  I’m finding I express ideas easier in essay format than I do in poetic, but I remind myself that perfection isn’t the goal here.  The goal for the next few months is to nail meter and to write on poem, whether or not it’s utter crap, as I’m sure several of them are.)