Hands Of Clay Poem by Kevin Patrick Brown

The past has a long reach, a grip of hands grimed with clay,
We try to pull ourselves, aching, into the promise of the future,
but we pause, as we gather the courage to let slip the pull
regardless of the pain of parting from those who tilled the past.

Oh, they had kept station with us, their faith in us never in doubt,
but suddenly we found that we were grasping time in a different way,
and we had left them without hints, secrets, nor directions to find us.
And yes, we had the horror to watch them drown in an ocean of clay.

It had clogged their hearts, and let them slide from our thoughts
until we could never be certain of the direction we had once taken,
but we were sure of the path we now strode upon, redemption in our soul.
No, we needed no maps on the journey we undertook, our desires clear.

How could we help them save themselves from the weight of darkness
the pain of parting, the wrenching change of direction, a harvest of
dank dark soil. I wept tears of sorrow as I watched them slip into
the blackness of regret and sorrow, could I but return to what I knew?

Would the aching brightness of the springtime sun come soon
to dry the wetness of their winter, and allow the wise farmer
of acceptance come and drill their hearts with promise and joy,
and they would exchange hands of clay for a clasping, cleansing hope.

Everywhere, sometimes, it is spring, and we will gaze at the rain
that has come to wash us all as clean as we were in our time of
first innocence, to help us live with the sadness of the past, yet let it
not taint nor rot the harvesting of the hearts tender crop of Love.