We are hands for holding
and fingertips for touching,
Bare feet coated in rough, sticky sand,
Fists punching hard enough to shake thick plaster,
Muscles and sinews that know speed and grace.

We are skin always warm to the touch,
A heart pushing blood
through a lacework of veins – movement,
always movement in thudding heartbeats,
tensing muscles, twiddling thumbs.

We are skeletons, cold and dead,
tattered clothing shifting in a dry breeze
as our toothy mouths leer at the living,
the memory of life fading
from dozens of slowly crumbling bones.

We are connected by a bond
which we share with all living things
made of scales or fur or skin.
We talk, we laugh and cry; we connect
with others who share life in common.

We are minds that race quickly;
A bit of chalk scribbling equations on silence,
Two lips bandying heatedly,
anticipating words, actions, and reactions.

We are strong, conquering each other,
and the powers of nature and of the world.
We are frail, only delicate skin
that rips like tissue paper;
Only bones that snap like twigs,
crushed against a tree or hard pavement.

We are broken hearts,
sobbing helplessly in the darkness,
and rough, cool fingers
to soothe tear-streaked cheeks.

We are hands for holding,
lips for speaking, and minds for thinking.
On an Earth that could be filled with dust,
we are living things
that move and breathe and feel.