Soft hands, rough hands

Strong hands till the soil,

Making room in gardens for mustard green boil,

Short handle spoons, pork belly, lemongrass, and skimming the scrum oil,

Leaf tunes, and dib kaus after the day’s toil,

Bruised hands till the soil,

Irrigating deep roots with the slow drop of words that help kids grow,

So when hot soot, or monsoon clouds make your tears flow,

Or when owls hoot, and dad thunders, lashes, and throws,

Clay plates and old boots, you’ll remind yourself of the garden you’ve sown,

Calloused hands till the soil,

For pumpkin squash flowers and bumblebee tails,

Lime tomato sours, mixed for dib quab, and laughter sounds from new tales,

Chicken coop tarp towers, swap meets, and supermarket sales,

Late hours, early morning, and three layer pastries smells,

Old hands till the soil,

For life’s seasons, new winds, autumn leaves when time is borrowed,

Yesterday is gone, today God lends, but nothing is promised tomorrow,

Every dawn, I pray for you and wonder if time mends the sorrow,

These old songs, your eyes bawl when you think it’s all your fault,

Frail hands till the soil,

For a good home, that heals the soul with chicken noodle soup,

Plastic domes, to protect the ground and shield deep roots,

For the soul always comes home, and saplings grow from small shoots,

Saplings turn into trees that shelter bees and help returning birds recoup,

My hands till the soil,

For even the birds know and will be on their way home in season,

Through storms and snow, being sure without doubt, crossing seas, without reason,

To find familiar voices and old streets, I don’t have to wonder where you will be in,

The lights coming through the door at the corner where two roads meet, your smile beaming