Drawing my hands through the soft, wet flesh of the Earth.
I know already
It will emerge no chalice.

Cowards will bother,
they will force what isn't there.
They will plead something from nothing.
They will praise their hands.

The Earth is something I repeat,
Dipping hand into water, pressing pedal tenderly.
I wipe my brow like a farmer, returning sweat to the land.

Why are things never enough?
I see the form in the form I'm given.