When my father’s brother died
the priest told him
If you never want to hurt this much again,
never love this much again
and from my father I learned–
work is an expression of self
the beauty of sculpting the land with your palms
and the value of the tangible, feeling the dirt
of something you can hold in your hands–
He is an artist, and a firm believer in genius loci
the land talks to him, and he reads its roots
its rivers and buildings, to tell its many names
You may hear us bickering over what’s more significant
the space surrounding us,
or the words we use to fill it
And from the hidden name we share, Douglas
Dubh Glas
that the dark currents are as much a part of my lineage
as our fear of snakes
Artwork courtesy of Youssef ElNahas
