When I Lay my Hand

When I lay my hand flat
on the wooden table,
I think of water
against the side of a boat,
of earth
folded round a coffin,
of the axe's cold blade
cleaving the grain,
of the bird's claws
on the branch.

When I lift my hand
and take it away,
I think of autumn
and the sadness of leaves,
and of how the wind
tries to wake them,
to carry each battered soul
back up into the trees.