It is not only to follow or imitate
the tradition of our elders of yesterday
these hands
like those that came before us
reach the pure ether
where gods live
where I live
catching every fruitful tear
as if the answer to me
as if I’ll find the We
within those fragile beads
crashing into adorned fingers
the fingers trace our memories
recalling
the index
the middle
wrapping around the mold of my ear
parts of you
speaking to a part of We
the thumb
plucking berries off stems
knowing the wisdom it feeds
your index
your thumb
holding the inky thorn steady
weaving our roots
into a basket that carries me
the palms
cradle the equator of this vessel
where the upperworld
and underworld meet
letting the soft center
where moments are memorized in lines
migrate down the living canvas
to the gentle feeling between two lungs
a rhythm grown from blood rich soil
the one you had sown in me
these hands
shed skin like scales of a butterfly
forever at peace: within a single body
