Poem

All who busy their hands
Not in time, in the city
All who lay them on what is quiet
In a place far from city  streets
Or paths that hardly have a name anymore, but are arrived over and over again by 
mear pulling of a familiar direction to be...
These give voice to you, your faily blessing and utter softly upon a page...
Finally there are only prayers
Our hands consecrated for this
And have done nothing but implore, 

Then will I hold and be held
For time has many forms now and then we hear about it
And do what is eternal and old

-k