We stand and crane our necks
reaching for heaven’s bright smile,
upon shoulders of brown and moving green,
and in the act forget ourselves as one and there and good.
Made from unmade to make again,
these arms outstretched with fingers hoping
to touch the air and the unseen,
we hope for less than our skin suggests.
And yet, in this, there is no shame
since we ourselves are of the dust – rooted,
embranched and gnarled but numinous and whimsical
as the clouds and rain.
To escape from this is not as good
as other fingers poised to touch,
to show what we weren’t looking for…
ourselves, God’s fingerprints smudged
on the pane of humanity,
in the humanity of our pain-