Homeless

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.