Shake the hands.
Shake the hands.

You come to this life with serious hands
Come. Come.
Bring the noise of clay language
To cities where lost alphabets and exiled hieroglyphs
Dance on Potters tongues

Shake the hands
Shake the hands

You come from spirit holes
Snails left open to weave
Silver thread desires.

Clap the hands
Clap the hands
Justice is short
Too thirsty to wait for
Water to speak.

You come to shape the dirt
Honored dark hands knew signs
Come. Come.
Mold the lightning struck tree
Holler ancient rings
Signify Time.

Wave the hands
Wave the hands

You come to praise makers’ marks
Incise vessels before firing
Sacred Medicine Maker
Pick bowls from river bottoms
Next to rice plantations.

Clap the hands
Clap the hands
Bring the noise of clay language.