Our hands tell stories. Our hands love one another and give one another the strength to rise up and onward. There is wisdom with our hands, let us keep them close to the earth and within the nourishment there. We become withered with old age, our perceptions wider and larger like the sky above and may our judgments fall downwards like dead petals to be reborn into a deeper reverence for all.
Fall into Autumn.
Dedications to the dance of dying leaves
the imprisoned crimson pleading for springs smothering embrace
to wane as the earth’s heavy sigh
into a snore
only those buried in the leaves can hear