Born in another land;
weened and raised in the North.
Conditioned to the cold and
pragmatic temperament of
those who surround.

I am a man between homes;
born in the prairie, but cast
into the woods.
Adapting; never settled.
Skin turned to bleached birch bark;
brittle, but still tougher than the
windswept wisps of the grasslands.

There are no roots
digging downward to
establish something like
enrichment.

Yes, one day that
may come to pass, but
for now,
I remain transient;
between my origins and
my ending,
praying that
this transplant takes.

by Erik Shinker