my pink, ripe naked feet
after many kalpas
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 reverently rub their paws with oil.
They stand in 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
or flip flops
An imprint of my indigo hooves
on birth papers
or maybe a golden-framed certificate
Tiny, baby feet
Slowly became prisoners of shoes
And swallowed silences
Gurus of ten thousand paths,
And endless sources of being and doing,
Show me the light!
I bow down to you.