We belong to the sky.
He greets our mornings and closes
on home burials.
He covered all our homelands
before “property” and “realty.”
We live in the sunlight
that shapes the oldest pines and maples,
light rising on waves of elders,
setting on the turtle for another prayer.
We live within the moon,
temperaments designed for resistance
in a world designed for rapid change.
Traditions and one-eyed Ford songs.
We belong to the stars,
to the cosmic dust of pathways
congealed over there to guide our love
for traveling to the welcoming home.
We belong to our countries,
to our lands who own us, feeding the spirit
as homelands mighty as spirit,
stronger than all gerrymandered schemes.