There was something curious
how waking with the sun
and falling for the moon
shaped,
fashioned,
carved
a child untamed.
How the sunkissed fields
in its golden splendor
and the running rivers blue
with what enchanted reverie
could whittle and mold and sculpt
steady,
strong,
restless,
working hands that carry and handle
iron and steel, rubber and string.
Calluses that never become ghosts,
muscles that never rust,
always employed, toiled, labored
under the same fire sun,
forever and always
working.