My Hands Have Seen the Earth

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

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