PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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My feet did not touch the ground. Too

proud.  I had no especially good reasons

to be proud, but the shoes. The shoes.

Broke out the Sunday laced socks, the white

ones that made the red redder. I couldn't stop

looking down, ran into trees, stumbled

and kicked up sand.

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But hey, I caught my balance

and tripped away brushing off dirt

from the socks,  the shoes were fine,

gleaming of red patent leather untouched

by anything but the sun. As a memory,

it is a reminder of all things new. Red

shoes are epitome of gifts in pairs.

The world never knew the meaning

of these shoes for me in the middle

of few new anythings.

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Against the unpainted planks of the breaking

porch, on the aqua blue tiled walk of shattered

shale, the red stitched strap buttoned nicely

tight. If a picture had been taken, the brown

stuckle squares, individually placed, and nailed

to the house that had once been enviously

beautiful; set back and below the pocked dirt

road would have spoken of red shoes, new

against the wooden porch step.

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Red made aging wood seem new beneath

the blooms of four Catulpa trees, a row of cherry,

looming behind the ancient house, where

outside bedroom windows were white

blossoming green petaled pear.

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allets

12-12-13

11:11p

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