a foreigner

i am a foreigner
 only, i don't know from which land
 i am foreign to.
 here, in a nation called "Canada"
 i am not treated as a citizen. though, i was born
here
and qualify by the rules.

i am treated as an outsider
 within my own people,
 gossip passed in front of me,
 like a bottle of wine
 around a young child.
contents forbidden.

and when i go back 'home'
 i cannot read the signs in my language,
 only in English.
 i need a translator
 to speak to my elders.

and, though i try to find a home in the name of
 "wanderer"
 i do not really go wandering.
 if anything, i am searching,
 purposefully looking with intent,
 but the results are not easy
and as i dig, and dig, and dig,
the deeper i go, &
the wider the hole.
the wider the hole.
the wider the hole.

the sea of stories (and creation)

look at the sky
a web of stars
without lines,
a game of connect the dots
drawn in invisible ink
escaping with the moon

maybe if we were close enough
you could drag your finger through the constellations
and feel each thread, strum a song
and call it god;
weave a patch
in
the fabric of existence

or spin heaven into a spool
and save it for a time at sea,
letting it out at the quiet of night

(or
make a home in a corner of the room
at the light of morning)
hang tiny beads of dew like
drops
of
honey...


and sail on, unfold into a map
a cornered box of a sphere,
the opened gift of raven's chest

float atop
    the sea of stories
               and creation.