You Have a Belonging Here
The hermit thrush has a song
that tumbles from his throat
like a spring from the oldest stones,
a water that cascades through the mist-laden air,
a song that caresses your skin and
falls into your body,
you, an unintended listener,
rapt in the code of thrush love.
And the wake robin has a bloom
wavering in the cool air,
built in the architecture of ancient triangles,
red as blood, and yet
And yes, the wind has a body
that rustles through the smallest leaves of May,
through stiff spruce needles
and limber maple branches,
a body that flushes through the forest
breathe upon you.
And you have a belonging here
you did not expect.
You could have strolled in with your camera and your checklist
but instead you said a prayer
that opened the temple gates of your own body.
And look now what has come in.
Look now what has come in.
Stephanie Thomas Berry
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