spoken word by Eno Mfon
in the morning,
as the sun sets off for work,
as a chorus of birds begin their daily duty,
your two hands stand, steady,
stretched and ready to turn dreams into reality,
weaving between the stories they carry,
and the ones found in a favorite book,
in a conversation, in myths buried long ago,
only to grow from the earth again.
your hands have sown together distant friends,
built bonds between strangers,
and tied a thousand thoughts together in knots,
a reminder to those who forgot,
that we are not as different as we think,
your fingers tread lightly over fabric,
with a needle and thread, your draw maps
tracing back to the past, turning history into art.
and when it starts to get dark,
when your two hands are tired,
and your palms ache from the weight of time and tools,
when wool feels as heavy as wood,
your hands can hold onto the friends,
the strangers, the builders and makers,
hold onto the hands that heal us,
the stories beneath us, found hidden in the earth,
your hands can search for the sun that sets,
and they can find rest,
ready for the morning.