Where I belong, or destined to be
Is not exactly clear like
Crystalline doubt with fear in tow.
No,
Not on the ridge where I stand partly
In sky atop a roof not there
In its geometrical theory.
With the straight line
Like hammer to wood
Curved yet target laid,
Walking sticks on top of sticks
I nail my presence to homes
Yet homely to be made.
Not on the porch where lemonaid
Will be poured and yet to be's
Will extend on in time as an
Echo lingers of what no one sees.

I build a home
And leave a peice of me unknown.