It’s hard to know home without roots firmly planted in the soil of stay, when cancer and cure move the lifeline. and a tornado the geography of property beyond the winds of summer squalls and hard rains.
My heart is not a sedentary plot. it knows no fixed seasons: winters blow into summers and summers into winters not allowing me a crag or outcrop or even solitude.
The winds hear my shout but knows not the language of my cry. I cannot grow against it anymore. I cannot hold onto to its nothingness that promises no firm truth, only mysteries.
I am denied over and over the choice to stay, to make what others know and call home.
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