I’m barefoot in an emerald sea
stained with rain. Tiny prisms of water –
holy font – baptize my toes and I
don’t remember anyone telling me
that your soul grows
when your soles soak up grass whispers.
My feet swish soft and it all breathes life,
this nakedness, this intimacy with the impossible
green. It is a marked moment, a heartbeat of time
made holy in the offering of simplicity,
of simply being. But I forget so
soon. Distracted, my soul loses
its footing and I am cringing on gravel, bits sharp
on tender flesh. I long for grass, for softer times,
places where the tread of living is easy, where every step
does not set jaws on edge with discomfort. But who can say
whether the sharp awareness of gravel
is not the truest gift?
Ferocious, this biting – but many steps in gravel
build resilience. And is that not holy, too?
Toughened skin, stepping firm despite pain, may
not this be a place of intimacy, of
connection with a life larger than grass?
And I think,
I don’t remember anyone telling me that
gravel blesses the grass with deep benedictions.
I’m barefoot, and I hesitate, deliberate.
I choose the gravel path.
Thanks! I always enjoy your poems.
Thank you Stephen! I haven’t written for so long – it feels good to stretch my poetic wings again.
Wow . . .this has me thinking, knowing I am prone to always want the grass! Thank you, Melody!
Thanks Deb! I’m with you on that grass…