Self-contained as snails,
crunch of fallen stars underfoot,
fragments of dreams distant as galaxies,
we snake round blind corners.
We smell the rawness of rocks,
shoulder to shoulder, lining the path.
They loom naked, cold, hushed.
Our skin aches with absence of touch.
As we track back out of the storm’s eye,
We claim the rocks – the loved, the lost,
the strangers beyond our naming.
Some have entertained angels unawares.
We turn and turn, unfold as plants
to let each leaf receive the sun.
With the whorled imprint of fingertips,
hands reach out to bless the future.