Gurus –

my pink, ripe naked feet
blithely dawn
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
No shoes
or socks
or flip flops
or boots

An imprint of my indigo hooves
on birth papers
or maybe a golden-framed certificate

Tiny, baby feet

Slowly became prisoners of shoes
And fear
And swallowed silences

Gurus of ten thousand paths,
And endless sources of being and doing,
Show me the light!
I bow down to you.
Om namo.

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