Hands together. . .
Yours to mine,
Mine to mine,
Yours to yours. . .
We touch our hands
in twos, in threes,
in little groups,
in crowds,
in scores. . .
we breathe
we drink the water
accept
caress of life-breath air,
we feel the resting place
and time
of shade
and dark. . .
We rise with day,
we soak, absorb
with skin,
with eyes,
the wholesome light
of any kind,
from the modest lights
we’ve made
with copper wires,
with oil,
with wicks,
or wood-twirled,
blister making
tinder spark taking,
as well as lights
born of
a greater Mind,
as are the stars and moon and sun,
which,
even in
times of eclipse,
still so brightly shine
their awesome power
can well render
the nosy and uncareful eyes
of anyone
quite sadly blind,
a fate quite stark.
We learn respect
of how such great power
and our life
amid each other
by necessity
do intersect.
We feel together,
and thus, we know
we’ll sail
far more far,
once we can see,
even in times
free of flood
and all sort of
calamities,
and we relax
in true profundity
into what once had been
our very wary meeting eyes
and handshake touch,
and the act
of doing such
does steer us
toward rock solid
amity and sanity,
which renders us
as clearly free
in as much as
we are bound
to travel all
in this one ark.
