We stumble through Advent; sometimes our hearts go out to the Christ child coming to nestle in our hearts and sometimes we wonder whether to slam or prop open our actual door…
The grit of sand and dirt disturbs my tread
And door’s ajar to let the lizards in.
Broom’s bristles are worn to stubby shreds-
Where are those dirty feet? Where have they been?
Dust from the hills, mud clumps from the run-off,
Streaks of asphalt from the last touchdown.
Scampering toes today grip drainage troughs,
Tomorrow they’ll grow, fit loafers, and win crowns.
No quests have led me round the turning sphere.
No glories gild a driven, spikey heel.
Just remnants smudge my calloused, bare feet where
Remnants of sand, from their misadventures, peel
The curtain from doors and distant lands yet near.
Little feet make worlds and old dreams real.
