These shriveled seeds we plant,
corn kernel, dried bean,
poke into loosened soil,
cover over with measured fingertips
perfect white squares
This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl
smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket
and nothing hangs out
so the name balances like a cloud
in the center of sky
This table I dust till the scarred wood shines
This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again
like flags we share, a country so close
no one needs to name it
The hands are churches that worship the world
~ Naomi Shihab Nye
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