I Built this Treehouse in the Ground

Chp. 8: Occupation II

I came from no pod, no cage, no womb.
My blood is a mystery to me--swirled fluorescent patterns sleeps and seeps through my veins.
I can talk to the clouds, I can breathe the dirt on the ground.
I came from no mystery, no fire, no silent realm.
My flesh is hard yet tempted by the flame-- burning with ease and floating as I please.
I can see through your night; I can touch with your paint.

Because I speak through my words on these walls, and I fidget as I wait. I wait for these letters to fall into place. Into places behind bookshelves and floor that is soft; into light that is silent and in temptations with the moths.

I came from no mother, no father, no cause.
My scent is no temptation-- my hair entangled in roots and my jaw frigid with past primed pollen. And my voice--is not there at all.

So here you can find me, alone on my roof. Or, under my canopy with my cloud by my side.