I belong in my grandmother’s garden playing in her birdbath,
flower petals in the water which I stir with a stick, as if I am cooking.
I belong on top of her stepladder, sitting as if I were a king on a throne,
the big yard is my realm.
I belong in time and space, even if sometimes it does not seem so,
as if I were an impostor in this four-dimensional universe.
I belong in my head and its version of reality
more than in the so-called real world.
I do not belong in a place of strife.