The Dance

To the trees whispering the windy north chill,
to the muddy paths leading to the forest,
to the gulls pausing in the field,
I belong.

To deep brown eyes and bouncy feet,
to her long hair and words written on thin paper,
to the music of the bow,
to these,
I belong.

The great swell of the sea,
my lover's hands,
a perfectly mishapened bowl,
I belong.

To stories,
to Autumn,
to fire.

Outside,
where the moon shapes the circle,
I belong.