Earth shoes

Still seeking the magical cure for everything.

A while back,

Long ago now,

It seemed everything

Could be cured

With Earth Shoes.

Not able to stand upright?

Earth Shoes.

Unbalanced?

Earth Shoes.

Forgot to eat breakfast?

Earth Shoes.

Didn’t get enough sleep?

Earth Shoes.

Not enough water?

Earth Shoes.

I still seek the equivalent

Of Earth Shoes

That magical way

Of keeping feet

Flat on the floor

Earth Shoes

The cure for everything.

Wild

Therapy with no individual therapist required. Cheaper, maybe. Or not so cheap.

We saw a movie last night

Bought the cheap seats

Watched Reese Witherspoon

Walk

Crawl

Slip and slide

The Pacific Crest Trail

Miles and miles of therapy

I would not sign up for

Miles upon miles

Of therapy

One step at a time

One foot

After the other

In too small hiking boots

In duct tape

In shorts

In snow pants

Miles and miles of therapy

One step at a time.

Confessions

True confessions.

I have hidden

Behind Mary Oliver;

To the side

Of Barbara Brown Taylor;

In the wake

Of so many women

(forget the men, for now)

(sorry, men)

(apology flows through

My Minnesota veins)

I have clung

To the hem of particular garments

When in truth

They are clothes

I could never wear.

I have even walked

In certain shoes,

They pinched my toes

Threw me off balance,

When really

I have always craved

Comfortable shoes.

I own six pair

Of the same

Comfortable shoes,

Different colors,

In the closet,

As well as pink plaid flats

For fun.

I carry a lapis wallet

For that pop of color.

It matches nothing

I own.

Me and the prayer shawl

I am here in my prayer chair, my writing chair, the chair I bought over 23 years ago now.  The cat is sound asleep on the bag I use to collect the CSA vegetables every Wednesday.  I make sure to return it to the exact same spot between vegetable collections.  It holds the heat of the sun during the week.  I am not sure how the shoes appeared in this poem, except that they are part of the picture.  I may complain about my daughter*s pile next to the front door.  My pile is behind the bedroom closet door.  Yes, we are related.

Me and a prayer shawl

In the blue chair,

Next to the cat,

Asleep in the sun.

He sleeps

On top of the vegetable bag.

It couldn*t be better.

I know this place at home.

The pile of shoes

Beside the front door

Has grown.

All the shoes belong

To my daughter.

My pile lives

In the closet upstairs.

Me with the prayer shawl.

The cat.

My beloved sleeps

Upstairs,

Next to the closet

With my shoes

Piled

Not so neatly.

Most likely

It could not be better.

It is sufficient.

It is good enough

The way it is.