Grounded
There is a path I walk,
every day.
Over cobblestoned sidewalks
lined with soft green moss
interspersed with leaves
a dream lurking
beneath each brittle reminder
of time’s irrefutable progress.
Transitioning to asphalt,
I can smell the rain,
slick and oily
beneath my searching feet.
Before long,
road wends unto trail.
My feet plying
the softer paths,
their soles cursing
the sharp-edged stones,
but moaning in ecstasy
under the massage of
rounded, ancient pebbles.
Whose feet have their willing hands treated today?
Mud and puddles
The last thousand steps
Splashing and squishing,
my calves and toes grinning
like the little bird
beside me.
I love walking. I relish the ability to move from point A to point B simply under my own power. Sometimes life’s banality and normality speaks poetic verses to me via its simplicity and ordinariness. In fact, sometimes I wish that my muse was more ordinary than ornery.
Do you like walking? Do you feel that your creative spark can come from a place of meaningless insignificance?
American writer
