Hands

The trees are still there every morning Angry or sad The sun beats down through your pores Day after day after day. And the moon will never stop. And the spirit to which God has granted you Walks with you Penniless or pocketless. "Something was dropped along the way," You feel. "Well it's true we shed ourselves over the years, Pieces of ourselves everywhere," says the sliding Voice. Identity is really only something We think other people need. So we pretend like we're separate from each other. The word "firelight," is evocative. The bloom of spirit and desire and The ever-crackling of wild entanglement Our lives like firelight On the darkened beach from the young and warm light to the blazing chaos and wonder to the toking and smoting and dimming And the burial, and the cold. I am as sad as the bottom of a well. I have left something along the way. A small appendage, maybe, I had meant to use at some point. The Right Hand of God I was too distracted to keep hold of. I am all other centerless beings Dropping things here and there A pen. A thought. A conviction. And to keep hold, to press on staring redemptively At the circling Hands To live in this way is to gain wisdom And with wisdom there is always the healing of sadness. Senseless though, I know, like all else And the evering was and the here we sit Our eyes blinking tears from the bottom of a well. Tearing from our core for The love and need for others And their hands.