VIBRAM SOUL

Wingtips, loafers, the odd oxford – in twos,

my feet are indentured foreigners in mere shoes.

They miss their native tongue of boots from The Hike,

miss smelling of bee’s wax, of moleskin, of sweat and the like.

So I slip on the cottons, and then the wool blends,

and let my soles take me to where my soul mends...

Out of the office and through the choked lots,

and into the woods where I can think my own thoughts.

Yet I need not boldly go where none have before

(when I take such strolls, my mate gets quite sore).

Just worn trails with slow rises and quick bends,

such places cauterize frayed nerves on their ends.

I leave only foot prints, but take photographs,

and step to the side so that others may pass.

I catch wind of the flowers and pass notes to the birds,

while whispering a small prayer to see elk in great herds.

I cool in the streams and warm on the rocks,

knowing it’s pedestrian to take such a walk, but

Don’t need you to tell me, I’m proof of my own…

even though there’s no roof, it still feels like home.