i was not raised by many hands
i was not raised by trees calling out for me to climb higher
to dare to race the wind
i was not raised by many faces who knew my many names
and let me crawl on their limbs
and whispered the family histories of soil, rocks and grandmothers in my ear

i was raised in small rooms
and by equally transplanted squares of grass
i was raised by a few orphaned souls, a trundle bed and and a tall rusted fence
i was raised to think that everything can be thrown away:
napkins, houses, plants, old friends, cats, clothing, one's name, one's parents
and that i would.

but once the wind spoke to me,
and maybe once or twice i felt related to a story i read in a book
that i found in the tower that houses all the other anonymous books,
and the crying that often came late at night
kept me alive and knowing there were things worth caring for.
that needed to be found.

i may be new here,
but know that i come humbly.
know that i come hungry for the company of sounds
and for spending many nights with you on the front porch looking at the stars
and for rooms covered in the soft shells of time and dust
and for watching each other change and grow.

and i may not have been raised
to know this is the place i would one day want to protect,
but my heart knows how to stretch itself big
and my spirit knows pride in our pain
and my body knows what it feels like
to stand on the cliffside
alongside the family of ghosts.