My pink, ripe naked feet
blithely dawn
after hundreds of years
of dark, stifled longings
These gurus know something I don't
The Tarahumara Indians glide through
the canyons of the Sierra Madres
just like the ancestors did
Shoeless - more or less
And the yogis rub their paws with oil,
and stand on one and grab the other with their hand -
Dancer Pose,
Natarajasana
And, back to the wisdom of mountain pose,
the original ground of being,
awakening abeyant discrimination
The barefoot sisters walked from Maine to Georgia
and back again - Barefoot
Barefoot!
No shoes
or socks
or flip flops
or boots!
An imprint of my indigo hooves
remains
on birth papers
or maybe a golden-framed certificate
Tiny, baby feet
Slowly became prisoners of shoes
And fear
And swallowed silences
Feet!
Gurus of ten thousand paths,
And endless source of being and doing,
Show me the way, the truth and the light!
