Posts Tagged ‘belonging’

Of course, there are books everywhere—
shelves and stacks and bags of books.
Though I would not have guessed
there would be small wooden ladders
with many rungs for the mind to climb.
And the colors on the walls are warm
and the breeze through the open window
is cool. Through one window, some neighbor
is playing their radio loud,
though it’s after one a.m.
And out the back window, I can see
in the moonlight a persimmon tree
laden with hundreds of pale orange fruits.
And though Alison isn’t here,
she is so thoroughly here,
and I feel so very not all alone
as I fall asleep by myself in Alison’s room,
aware of my exact shape and grateful
that for this moment, I know myself
as something else that belongs here,
something chosen, something defined in part
by its presence here, something integral
as the tennis ball, the blue flashlight,
the tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall.

Read Full Post »

Just after sunrise,
I hear it, the bright airy trill
of the red-winged blackbird—
and before my eyes
are even open,
I feel a wild resonance
with the waking world,
the certainty I belong
to this day with its rising sun
and scent of green grass,
its breeze reaching in
through the screens;
I belong to this day
with my creature heart
that already this morning
longs to hold what it cannot,
longs to comfort others,
even knowing how
sorrow must be felt.
I belong to the song
of the red-winged blackbird
as it calls out again,
belong to the silence
as he waits for an answer.
And waits. And waits.
I belong to the spring
every bit as much
as I belong to winter.
This is perhaps
the conundrum of love,
no matter how strong the ache,
we still belong
to the world of beauty,
this world that calls to us
even in our sleep,
wakes us with a promise
strung like audible garland
across the dawn—
you belong, you belong.

Read Full Post »

You belong among the wildflowers.
            —Tom Petty, “Wildflowers”

Standing alone
in a high and steep meadow
surrounded by a million million
pale purple asters,
a person might be,
at least for a moment,
a many petaled thing,
might know the blue sky
in a new blue way;
might want to visit the self
as curious as a bee
stepping into the golden center
of things. What luck
to climb into beauty,
to stumble into
the self greater than the self,
to forget for a moment that worry,
that burden, that loss,
and simply purple, to wildly
purple, to purple with abandon,
to purple without thought,
to humbly purple,
to purple.

Read Full Post »

At the Houston Zoo

Not the chuckwalla
nor the cheetah nor the capybara,
it was the pigeon
I couldn’t stop watching
as it sat on its nest
in the tall sturdy grass
beside the glassed-in walls
of the chimpanzees
with its fluffy grey chicks
tucked against its grey breast.
She looked as if she belonged
exactly where she was—oh
how I cherish that feeling.

Read Full Post »


And if it’s true we are alone,
we are alone together,
the way blades of grass
are alone, but exist as a field.
Sometimes I feel it,
the green fuse that ignites us,
the wild thrum that unites us,
an inner hum that reminds us
of our shared humanity.
Just as thirty-five trillion
red blood cells join in one body
to become one blood.
Just as one hundred thirty-six thousand
notes make up one symphony.
Alone as we are, our small voices
weave into the one big conversation.
Our actions are essential
to the one infinite story of what it is
to be alive. When we feel alone,
we belong to the grand communion
of those who sometimes feel alone—
we are the dust, the dust that hopes,
a rising of dust, a pitch of dust
the dust that dances in the light   
with all other dust, the dust
that makes the world.

Read Full Post »


Forgive me, please, when I,
thrilling in how much I love you,
believe you belong to me—
like a book or shirt or a ring.
Writing that short list,
it now seems strange
I believe I own anything.
I know well the unstitching of loss.
Let me learn to love you loosely
the way I love morning,
the way I love song,
the way I love hawks on the wing.
Let me love you the way
I love poems, startled
and grateful each time I find
it is I who belongs to them. 

published in ONE ART: A journal of poetry

Read Full Post »

Dozens of puzzle pieces suspended in the air.

All day, I’ve wondered why no one else

seems to see them—dangling as they are

on the hiking trail and in the kitchen this morning,

over the highway and at the birthday party.

All day, they appear with their knobs and inlets,

their gray backs and colorful fronts,

spinning like small bits of certainty.

Sometimes I feel one fit into place

in some larger puzzle I don’t actually see,

but when a piece slips in, I feel it

with my whole body—a snap, a link,

a small yes. I don’t know whose hand

is doing the work. I don’t know where

the pieces came from nor where they should go.

All day I wait for it, the feeling of being lifted

out of my life and placed back in

exactly where I belong.

Read Full Post »

You Belong Here

            for SRB

You belong here—

here in the world

of wonder and fear,

of Zumba and street fights,

of pink hats and protests.

You belong here

with your questions,

your anger, your trust,

your voluptuous cursive,

your stubborn tears,

you belong here.

With your fine darkness,

your involuntary shine,

your shuttered faith

and your reckless love,

your uncertainty,

you belong here—

in the alleys, the rooms,

in the meadows, the halls,

in the sacred cathedral

of your body.

Whether or not

you asked to be here,

whether or not

you feel wanted here

here is where you belong.

It is for you the moment arrives,

wondering what comes next.

It is for you the next breath

finds your body and fills you,

it’s for you, this day, you

right here where you belong.

Read Full Post »