I felt the rough palms of those laboring hands,
hands that supported me and showed me each way.
It seemed natural, the bridges that appeared
at my feet as I sauntered along, a wondering child
gazing into wandering skies. I stumbled through
time, in the procession of days, to unknown heights—
following the paths they cleared for me.
Through the dense fog, the carved curves of the thicket
led me to these rolling pastures. I knew not
the weight of life, ‘til it was my own hands that grew
marred and callused. Once, under a black blanket
dressed with silver suns, I suddenly felt life in every shadow.
Alone, I watched the glowing eyes of coyotes reflecting
the firelight. Lost in open fields, I inherited a wilderness.
I move onward down each nameless path these
laboring hands clear away, day by day. I gaze into the
rippling streams that run through the hills, and I wash my face.
Some strange figure kneels before me resembling my father.