In that fleeting moment when the sky turns from night to day

- and the birds, wild and free, sing because they belong.

When your lover stands by the stove, the kettle about to whistle, wearing her pijamas still

- feeling the cool touch of the stone on her bare feet, where she belongs.

Outside the corner store when the child, wearing red rubber boots

jumped on that thin layer of water, barely a puddle.

While his mama bought a honey crisp apple, a last minute addition to his lunch

- she stepped outside looking for him, looking at him, smiling, knowing they belong.

Ten past twelve when your co-worker that always eats alone, ate alone.

But instead of headphones, today he brought with him an envelope.

Reading through layers of hand writing, slowly, as if eating the words.

The sender’s address read Lesotho, Africa

- from that faraway land he felt closer than ever, to where he belongs.

On the way to the train, you almost tripped on her worn leather boots.

The young woman with black nails strumming a beat guitar.

Singing in a perfect melody, not a cover, her own pain, her own softness.

- In that music, echoing down the hall, amongst these strangers, she feels like she belongs.

When Bear sat and wagged his tail, looking through the glass living room door,

Seeing himself and waiting for your reflection to appear next to his.

Knowing each stone you step on your walk across the yard.

The last rays of sun, shining from the west. You were glowing.

You hung up that last call, put your phone in your back pocket.

Removed your glasses and rubbed your eyes, just like your father used to.

You looked up - woke up, and saw your reflection and his.

On the glass door you keep on meaning to clean, Sunday! Or, don’t bother.

Just remember, you belong.