Fringerprints

Our fingerprints don't fade. There is gravity in that fact. Gravity that weighs upon my mind and my back and my heart and my fingertips. Everything in the earth revolves in a cycle of death, then eventual life, then age, then death again. Friction fades and entropy pulls apart. Wind and dirt rub away mountain tops and water washes over tree barks. The life of plants may regenerate, but not individually. There is nothing permanent in the grass or the clouds. Yet, our bodies, as breakable as they are, and our skin, as prone to scrapes as it is, do not fade. We can touch and move as much as we want, and out surface remains. And even more, we can leave a mark.

Our fingerprints stick. That is the splendor of touch. We can do it in peace or in violence over and over and over and never physically lose our ability to do it some more. Our voices can fade, as mine has over the past couple weeks, and though our bodies might grow tired, our presence can be powerful.

Let those fingerprints flow from hands that work and do. Leave some marks, and have hope they won't fade. You were made with this ability and with this purpose of the human touch. To comfort and love in that contact and connection. The touch.

Let it Fall

Washing away all that was here from today.
All the dirt,
all the grime,
all the pain.
Let it fall off and run down.
Drains the overflowing leftovers
only to leave the
Pure and sparse,
More beautiful than anything most of us
Have ever conceived.

Sit rocking on the deck
Lost in the novel telling
Stories to yourself
Dreaming under the glow of
How you will someday glow
As you are tossed by the
Breeze into the
Shade of green grace

4 x 5

Cut it and dice it
4 x 5 Pop-tart grid
Pieces apart in perfect proportion
Eating your chart from the
Sprinkled sprinkles on top

This morning listening to your pop
From the toaster you lit up
What a messed up way to start the morning
Convenience in plastic wrap
4 x 5 Pop-tart grid

Crunch up Melancholy Hill
The place we all should go when we feel like
This torn inside beating thing
Not sure muscle
Strong still, pulling

Collect the crumbs one by one
On your fingertips
That were made to feel even when your
Melancholy soul doesn’t want to
With the bending morning sun coming.