We sit, kneading ourselves,
In the amber clay of our being
Memorizing the feeling of wisps of clouds
Upon our unforgiving palms.
Marking the Tuesdays where we ate
Red Fuji apples
In their all-encompassing glory and gleam
Against dusk’s luster and blues;
As streams of sweet honey water poured upon
The blistering of our hardened hands,
Capturing the cool and vivid April in their
Sticky and child-like saunter
Below a sticker that reads:
Grown in Washington.
We kneel, folding ourselves,
Like gentle origami cranes
Among the murmurs of olive trees
And the imprints of our knees
In the sensibilities of sacred soil.
Clasping our hopes within the valleys of callouses;
Observed by the fingerings of rosaries and the grasps of romance,
From gripping the heavens in our palms;
Shouting towards nebulous constellations,
Longing for noble pine trees and moonlit berries
To shine a path as we lose sight of our childhood
And forget to listen to our gallant hearts.
We stand, recreating ourselves,
From particles of Dust and Destiny
Within the brimming chaos of our becoming
While warning words and winds sink within our skin.
Digging our dirt-worn nails into the spines
Of errant novels that shed light on the unspeakable,
Whose yellowed pages witness
Generations of repetition and evolution,
Our knowing fingertips’ flipping
Becomes the catalyst of further emancipation,
From archaic barriers of misconceptions,
As we find comfort in prophetic syllables
That have handcrafted this ancient earth
