Thursday, March 17, 2011

Little Boots.

When I laced you up,
we didn’t dream of what you’d see
that you had a purpose or life
outside of moving me.

We were fearless but shocked
when you stepped into the street-
you’d never known the terrain
that we went to meet-

You saw the sun shine in Ireland;
snow on the rugged moors;
pretty parks in New York;
my feet covered in sores.

You were shiny 'til then;
unblemished and young
With squeaky movements and
a stiffer tongue.

Time changes everything
no matter where you are
though travelling will ensure
the hasty getting of scars;

the talking lines you’ve acquired
from long conversations with paths
and sand you collected
from sudden saltwater baths.

Once, we were different;
you hurt my toes.
I wasn’t ready to feel
the things that you know,

but then I walked all those miles-
further than I’d guessed-
your strength never wavered
as we walked further west.

And the sun finally set
as we finished our tired trek
but you can’t retire, not yet.
Though you’re a glorious wreck

with holes at your edges
and dirt crusted to your sides;
you’ve got the perfect voice
to narrate my lived lives.

1 comment: