I do not live where I was meant to,

where my ancestors cared for lands,

just as the lands cared for them too.

I do not live in a place, shaped by creator’s hands.

I do not live where I was born to,

where my parents happened to be,

when their love was new.

I do not live in the place that created me.

Instead, I allow my roots to grow,

down into cracked sidewalk concrete,

and yet, somehow, I know,

I do not feel at home in city streets.

Instead, I let my roots live

with the souls of people who resemble me,

and if I have some space to give,

I know in their hearts, my home, will be.

(In response to my earlier poem homelands, if that poem is how things are supposed to be, then this is how they actually are. To me, spiritually homeless is to be disconnected from the land you originate from. However, there is hope for making a new spiritual home in our connections with others. )