I just moved into a new house.

Tiny white, with a backyard big enough to build another just the same;

with vines that intertwine on it’s face, side and back that would resemble veins - almost alive, in a way;

in a way it slants, almost it’s own Titanic, sinking into a mass of ever growing grass.

And I don’t mean to be crass as my new life’s words have unintentionally become a poem,  

but this little house on the prarie has yet to become my home. 

It has yet to fill my heart with it’s everlasting mishaps and cracks that tell tales taller than those who’ve walked through it’s gaps.

It has yet to set my mind to sea with the twiddle dees of the singin’ birdies in the trees that wave ever so freely in breezes that have yet to come relieve me of my grievances.

It has yet to show me my way in my darkness of darker days, days when I wished my darkness would go away; 

in skin, through pain and delay of love that should not have to wait to remain. 

Remaining, is my house. 

Not alive yet, but in the process; a growing pain.

We are growing together - our own cracks and mishaps; 

I will plant my own tree in it’s ever growing grass where i can willow along in the breeze and throw away my grievances.

It will show me my way through my darkness of darker days, and show me that my darkness is here to stay, and to embrace it is the only way;

To live my life in peace with the birdies in the trees.

I want a home. 

I will have my home. 

In time it will come,

someday in it’s prime.

Although the minutes will seem slow 

one day at a time, 

it will grow into my dream, 

an all together sum, 

of what I want it to be.

My home, this house will become.

- Awa Sal Secka

06-24-11

1:55 am, E.S.T.