Footloose

“Tie up your shoe laces;” my grandmother told me

“You wouldn’t want to take a tumble.”

and I know she meant well.

“They don’t bother me;” I would reply,

“I’m not going to fall.”

and of course I never meant to.

But of course I fell anyhow.

 

So I learned to bind my feet inside my shoes

to protect them, to keep them safe and clean

as they walk the hard highways

with socks too, to keep them warm, and comfortable.

I have learned to walk upright,

to follow the sidewalks and avoid the puddles.

 

But sometimes

when I see that brief patch of sod,

soft, wet, green,

there comes that inexplicable desire to abandon my shoes,

to let the cool air caress my feet,

to draw shapes and trails in the sand,

to claw at the blades of grass with curling toes,

to feel the whiskery tickle of each blade on one’s ankles.

 

I understand the need for that balance between reserve and release.

Perhaps, on occasion, freedom is best foregone in favor of care and vice versa.

But I prefer to walk the in-between

by letting my laces swing and dangle,

dragging and dipping, narrowly avoiding getting tangled.

Yes, perhaps I’ll fall as my grandmother had warned,

But now that I’m better at walking, I don’t see the ground up close quite as often.

Now and again it does me good to take a tumble.