Your Feet
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
I almost forgot about Poetry Tuesday. I’m exceptionally tired and distracted as of late. So distracted that I am forgetting to eat. Not good. I will have to be more mindful of that. Time for a good soak, a good read, mediation, and a good night’s rest. That will be a good start.
I just wrote an entire paragraph and Word Press ate it. That’s probably as good thing as it rambled on about feet, candy corn, and dentistry. Some things are best left unsaid. No, make that many things.
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