Belonging

Funny how it comes together here
the afternoon of the pow-wow

in Waimea, Hawaii—

the upcountry town with chickens

always grilling on a spit beyond

the row of twelve or thirteen churches—

as if something in me has healed,

after the years of longing

for things I can’t have or be.

Or grafted, maybe, like the pear trees

our landlord has married

(Seckel to Bartlett, Comice to Bosq)

back in our California yard. 

In a real sense

I am of these people, all of them—

the Indian dancers

         with fine feathered wings

Hawaiians

mainland tribes

earth dwellers,

Theirs are my ways:  the old ways

I have come to this island to learn;

the way the Tao is said to be;

the way I feel here, longing

and belonging, welcomed home.

—Christie