Houseless

And shivering just a bit
in the wind,
I turn all around,
walk the edges of this island
thinking,
where should I build?
how high will I raise my roof?
In this wilderness,
trees obstruct the view
with dead limbs, broken branches.
What do I clear?
Should I face west,
towards where the sun must set?
or east, where the rising sun
turns the water rose?
Or do I face south,
catch the warmth
of the sun’s too brief passage
across the sky?
I need so little—
a shore, some trees,
a way to see the sun,
catch cooling breezes,
feel safe in the four corners
of my house,
a place where kindness
knits the walls
and purls the sunlight,
and sleep comes softly
through the windows
with the moonlight
and I rest soundly,
knowing where I am.