they shared a plot of earth,
but not much more in common.
yet in mustered forbearance
(or sheer forgetfulness) they sit here.
annoyances left behind at home
with the dog.
all for the good of what they owned.
this blip of dirt and rock and love,
unknown to most,
but to the few - those filling the room-
unforgettably known.
they knew of the flakey birch
whose sagging crown
was like the tip of a hat
before departure.
they knew the extroverted fox
who found no fear or awkwardness
in eye-contact.
they knew of the welcoming grove
whose greeting had to be restricted.
a far too friendly and stifling neighbor.
they knew what time the deer
weaved their way from
plot to pond.
on the paths cut
by the blade of routine.
we are not the only ones
who belong here.
this speck of dirt, this grove of trees,
this place, was enough.
enough to don a mask (or not) and cast a vote.
enough to sit beside a person
of the opposing party.
enough to agree with the neighbor
you’ve only spent words
on gossip, not conversation.
but tonight, belonging is enough.
though, when isn’t it?
we long to be.
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