*image generated with AI, October, 2023

Where do I belong,
if not cradled in the curve of eternity’s hand?
The world shifts beneath my feet,
roots torn by winds howling,
“You are out of place.”

I have wandered among the fleeting,
held fast to shadows
that promise solidity yet dissolve.
I have cast anchors
into oceans of approval
yet remain adrift.

But in stillness—
beneath the noise of striving,
past the ache of fractured belonging—
I feel it:
the pulse of hands
that shaped constellations
now holding me.

It is not the earth’s embrace I seek,
nor the fragile grasp of human arms;
it is the eternal weight
of love unshaken,
of a grip that calls me
home.

In those hands,
I am more than found;
I am known.
Not for what I do,
but for who I am—
a creation of breath and dust,
formed to rest
in the heart of the Maker.

So where do I belong?
Not in titles, nor places,
nor evanescent dreams,
but here—
in the hands of God,
where I was always meant to be.