Cleaning Hands

Note: I don't do poetry, but this wouldn't come out of my head any other way.

Cleaning Hands
Rubber gloves
Are part of much cleaning;
But not mine.
My hands,
My cleaning tools,
Need to feel the fragments of
The world.

Cleaning dishes,
I need to feel the water.
The lifeblood of the world,
It cleanses my soul.
With soap preserving the world
For seven other children,
I remember those who've come before,
With those yet to come.
As I brush away a meal's remnants,
With my hands I honor
One last time
fruit,
vegetable,
grain,
and salt,
Those which preserve and nourish my life.

Gathering up the dirt
Of table, floor, counter, and sink,
I feel some of that
Which sustains life:
Dust that has protected flesh,
Dust that has pushed up flowers,
Dust that has been
birth,
life,
death,
and resurrection.
And I remember again
That old priest saying,
"Remember that you are dust,
And to dust you shall return."