There are people who love
laying all their hands on the table.
They warm up bread with the sweat of their brow
and when we lose them they are always
with us.
For the moment they are not touching us:
the moon finds the whitewashed bread we eat
while the laughter of promises is distilled
in the loneliness of the grass.
These people are the ground
from which we gather the sun that missed our fingers
leaving a dark fruit in place of the heart.
These people are the grounding
that does not need to fly.