The tree is dead of leaves and dry as timber....yet it has a voice more powerful than the living. A ghostly bark that calls for soles in pairs and gets as it demands. Hungry it is ... to reconstitute foliage which once completely shrouded its limbs, longing for a summer that will never come. Who was the first to wander by and hearken to its whisper of insistence? Perhaps the first cannot be traced, but the last...
Fresh marks on the bloody trail where bare or stocking feet have shuffled off. No doubt when the first stone pierced flesh, a backwards glance was cast and realization dawned ugly. So quick and stealth the loss, that it was not even a memory, just recent history. Where does one go when they have given up their sole? Me thinks they wander among us, pretenders who feign freedom in naked appendage, who dip their toes in fountains, and swipe their heels along the grass. We see them hippie free, laughing at the hot constraints of others who are digit shod. But I know better.
for what else have you, but to pose
when there is only a hole
where once a sole?