Poem – What is This Made Of?

I look at these hands
and the sifting dirt
and for a moment I
no longer feel or see
them but through them.

My arms and legs disappear
and the old pine come into view.

The autumn sun shadows
shrink and vanish.

What I see and am
becomes what I sow and require.


Posted

in

, , ,

by

Comments

Leave a Reply