Dirt on my hands
My eyes are getting bluer, I hope. Like the sky.
I would much rather see the dirt on my hands, than find Dirt inside.
I'm learning how to run. And sometimes, I'm still a lonely wolf.
I don't bleed very much. Only for the right reasons, like running in the pines, up the mountains-sharp rocks and dusty desert skies.
Show me where the Lost river is.
Show me how to drink, and dunk my head
and wade out deep, up to my freckled shoulders
until the blue takes me under, and sharpens my fading memories.
Can you help me walk backwards? Way back...
'til my feet are small, and I'm not so old.
Where days are summer long, and dreamed through the night.
Maybe I'm too afraid, to look into those blue eyes and see the pain
maybe it hurts too much, to see blurry tears, cold and clear,
Like the river.
Wash my feet, Lord. And my hands, and my head too.