Boots

Where is the beauty in old pairs of shoes,

worn down with art or farming, with walking out

with painting cypresses in fields

and kicking small stones in solitude,

where the intrigue in these battered old boots

and clogs, the brown leather dented and blackened with age,

the nailed soles mournfully searching the dirt with every step,

and occasionally finding the chance, discarded,

to raise eyeless heads towards heaven,

where the churning violence that seems to infest everything,

that religion and passion that can be found even

in a sunny bedroom or shining night,

what sway does it hold over a pair of tired shoes

sitting quietly at the end of a long day?