We lay our backs
into the burdens of our lives.
Where is the face
we held in our hands?
Where is its hope and innocence?
Do we succumb under the waves
wide-eyed and frightened
doing our duty,
earning our bread?
listening until the concerto stops,
the poem trails off,
the picture lays on the ground,
corrupted,
the lines stopping with half a face,
a building without windows.
Is that how it happens
when we take up the yoke,
earn our bread,
trade the heavens for walls,
infinity for time,
legends for gossip?
Earning a living by an empty harbor,
pushing the canoe into the water,
telling ourselves,
we will be back with baskets of floors,
books full of poems,
pomegranates of red,
stones picked up like agates
on a beach,
covered with jade.
We will return,
after the hours, and toil,
and fields cut and plowed,
and stock market tallies,
and promotions,
and pulling in fish,
to the forever place we all live in,
the innocence of our hearts,
the tremor of our hands,
molding all the while we worked,
a soul for ourselves,
not what we think,
but a child whose eyes looked at us,
from under the waves.