Hands, Feet, Mind

A poem

Aug 03, 2026

I have been to a place
where I met myself.

There—not here—
my hands worked without pretense and
my feet moved without haste and
my mind wandered without an agenda.

There,
I burn my forearms
baking bread served
with butter that I form
by hand.
By hand,
I roll and fold and stretch and shape.
By hand,
I slice and dice and mince and mash.
My hands learn
to prepare plates
like I am Picasso.
My hands learn
to make art
out of anything,
out of nothing.

There,
I rise at dawn to a
good morning greeting
from the rooster,
whose only alarm is the sun,
whose only objective is to be
the keeper of time
in the kingdom he calls his own.
He keeps time and so do I;
our bodies
(mine flesh, his feathers)
pining for purpose
and order
and nourishment
and maybe even love.
He is contained to his coop
and I am free.
Free to run to the sea, and
to the meadow, and
to the pub, and
to run back
home.

There,
the lines between poetry and prayer
become blurred and blended,
which makes me wonder:
Is there any difference?
They say prayer is how we talk to God, but
when God talks to me,
He speaks in lyric verse:
in a whisper,
in the wind,
by the sea,
through the stars.
So I start talking to God,
like I did
as a kid,
at times,
even in rhymes.
I am a bad poet,
and I know it.
But cannot contain it,
I cannot restrain it.
I speak in free verse
about how this place feels holy,
like Eden,
like this land was fashioned from
poetry and prose,
story and song.

Here—not there—
I am home,
learning to feel
like myself again.
I make,
I move,
I meditate.
Hands, feet, mind:
they are my map.
They guide me back
to that place
without pretense,
without haste,
without an agenda.
They guide me back
to that place
where I met myself.