“When home is not where you are born, nothing is predetermined.”
Tiny omissions, those syncopal kicks,
The way some lives depend on sun daggers
That just happen to be there, in the rock,
Coincidence that needs to be noticed
And marked for later, a strange kind of art,
Inverse of the sundial set in the yard.
We can only choose what we didn’t make.
Let me rephrase that, we can only choose
To notice, to note, to mark, to remark.
The things that we thought we made from nothing
Were the most predetermined parts of all.
But we chose to make a sign when we saw
A surprising alignment, part of us
Recognizing that the sun drew a line
When lowest that lit us. Art for that wall.