Barefoot in Departure

Waiting for the plane
To be cleaned
Wishing I could remember
To prune the winter
From my ground roots
Or, at least wear socks
Before I got to
Standing here
Arms raised
For security
Like a surrender

But the wild woman
In me
Whispers, no…

Why not run
Through here
Like waves crashing
Throwing shoes
Out of windows
Until the crust
Of my soul
Reaches a desert
Surfing this land



Posted on April 7, 2013, in Horse racing. Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Now that is a poem x

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