Maybe I am a clumsy person.
Too prone to accidents for this laborious career I have fallen into.
A fact attested to by these scrapes, blisters, each purple-black bruise.
Maybe. Or it could be the isolated, egotistical nature of focus.
Of intense, harsh attention paid out regardless the accumulating cost.
Some one concentrated on the slick wooden handle,
the intentionally cooked shaped cold hunk of metal,
the pin, so that a different someone can hammer.
Apply vigorous, unbreakable mental prowess against the nail.
The board, the steadily forming building built of treated lumber
and sharpened flat-headed metal, and so many hammers,
and some clumsy one working.
Perhaps too distracted by the task at hand
to take good care of his or her own hands.
When heat tumbles through skin and knit cloth,
like stifling, sun-warmed mists rising up to the occasion of a morning,
I feel so like the earth.
When jungles of oil-darkened hair frame a face,
crowd sky blue, dusty vision, tickled behind ridge dotted ears,
spreading rashes down a sun-red neck, when feet hurt,
when towering spine stiffens,
heat gets up to blood bathing the brain
and causes a nerveless organ to undergo the experience of feeling pain,
I am truly the naked mammal child of my planet.
And in these many moments,
the languages of elemental parents and grandparents,
great aunt the sun and granddaddy moon,
wind and water table cousins,
close kin and friends who pass over like rain,
stirring and kicking in the swollen bellies of clouds,
are familiar to me.
I hear their words clear, but understand only faintly.
I believe the world is telling me that I have lived here
like a stranger long enough. Now, we,
the earth and me, will be like family.