Home has melted. Koti on sulanut
this dear word, world puddling into mud. Muta.
Koti on
a house that knows how to die.
A house that is lonely for me. Yksinäinen minulle
The one with no walls. Ei seiniä
where rain pricks in
the quick withdraw of sun ––– aurinko –––
valo. What is your nature? Millainen luonto haltia sinulla on?
Can I too be a waveparticle fickle shadow –– varjo?
A temporary tattoo of belonging. Juurtuminen
That flickers into my skin. Minun ihoni sisään.
Pysähdyn tässä.
I pause here.
I finally un-wound from all my stories that I am going somewhere.
Kaikki minun tarinani, että minä olen menossa jonnekin.
Without ever asking where. Minne?
But I could not have answered.
Where is only missä on vain
Here tässä
to stay to here. jäädä tänne.
Become like jää ice that crystallines its staying as a movement to (w)here. Tänne.
every (w)here I go, I meet the elders that ushered my birth, that witnessed – todistivat –
made real my coming into this world.
Feet step always onto
that kallio, that ancient stone of attending, preceding them.
“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” God cries through the storm.
“What is the way to the abode of light? And where does darkness reside?” (Job 38:4,19)
I, human that I am, shall never be native, never take first root. I am bent, hungering fingers bowing
to plant kin.
I shall never have a neat term to inhabit, to craft an ontologia of belonging. But I do know how to spell, loitsia, how to pray, rukoilla, my nature– haltia– like breath back into body.
How to listen to the land to help me re-member. Kuunnella maata
To remember. Muistaa. (kuu, maa, moon, earth)
to take off my shoes at home’s door. And that thresholds are everywhere. Kynnyksiä kaikkialla
And when I step inside, I slip off my hat too. I look up to hear the air sighing around stumps and shredded tree skin confetti-ed where my neighbor recalls moss-bedded forest, dark and moist, covered with mushrooms.
Sammalpetinen salo, pimeä ja kostea, sienten peittämä.
My neighbor, who, on a walk, tells me: “when I regenerate in nature, I feel the power to be at home.”
Now that power comes with pangs. Yet even stripped, still this home,
vielä tämä koti,
clothes me in generosity, in a garment all our own, woven of old tree beard – naava – and my hairs collected in the dust. She adorns me as her guest, as I host her wounds.
And somewhere in the space between välissä aava, the Beloved sweeps us into song.
And I cannot tell where my voice ends and hers carries on...
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