When I feel I do not belong in the world,
when I walk past raspberry brambles
and my attention somehow fails to be snagged
by their clever thorns and the warm,
woody scent of their leaves,
when I curse the wind instead of turning
toward it, arms flung wide as if to fly,
in those moments there’s no poem, no prayer,
no book, no speech beautiful or fierce enough
to remind me I belong to all.
How is it so convincing, that numbness,
that doubt I could ever be worthy?
And how is it this late April morning
I tremble at the smallest beauty,
astonished by the elegant reach
of slender bamboo, the leggy twining
of wild honey suckle, the thready,
rhythmic peeps of the chicks
in my stepdaughter’s yard, the whine
of her dog as she watches the chicks.
In this moment, I can almost not believe
I could ever feel separate from the world,
though I know such moments are true.
So I wrap my arms around that lonely version
of myself, and marvel how the part of me
who believes I could never belong,
that part belongs here, too.