They were handed down from my father’s father
and worn everyday
and slept in for fear of them being stolen in the night.
Actually, there was nothing to hand down except the thought
of a boot.
Crunching gravel and snow in winter and in spring
and tromping through mud in summer,
or slipping over fallen red, orange and yellow leaves in the
month before Halloween.
Walking on, ’round the circut of houses, I thought, “Its not far now,
it’s not far from here.”
I could see the green siding of the house from down the street, but no matter
how close I got, it was still not the right time/space zone
to call it home. The house was always under construction.
So I must trust in the wind,
the unpredictible wind.
asingingtree 