The Machine doesn’t know what my hands know.
It cannot feel the pulse of the ancestors
beating from rocks and stars;
it cannot understand why I would cry
as I save earthworms stranded in my driveway after a storm.

The Machine doesn’t know what my hands know.
It cannot feel the quiver and quick and tack of a life,
cannot mourn, cannot miss;
waits data-dumb as I spend long minutes with raindrops
tasting sky on my skin.

The Machine will never know what it is to pray.