
Originally Posted by
MaggieG
"If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles." - Walt Whitman " Song of Myself "
It is a boot soul, wrapped, and strapped around
worn cut husk of human, stride of weather-worn grit.
A thicker hide is set.
Tie up those delicacies of civilized
step, and fetch; their prance. and fetch their prance? the punctuation here doesn't make sense to me.
We dance heavy, and ill bred.
Coarsing elements tromp elements
that stomp upon the foot of it all.
This soul is a sole,
and it's tread, it's scud elevates
from the hot hard cement
poured daily in sink holes.
Leather no longer labors
harnessing taws, but is a broganed mother
of fiercly tanned hide.
She never confides this shielded direction;
Sweet grass to soften, to trip over
for a simple resurrection... of the boot soul.
It is her thousand acres, rarely walked upon. so very rarely trod.