You touch the one sticking out of the sheet,
for a little relief, the cool of morning.
I feel you, feeling me
finding my dirty foot
turning you on,
the work these feet have done this year.
Of course, all things want to grow.
But we are prone to stagnate,
to save ourselves from the labouring,
to save ourselves from this contraction, and the next, and the next.
Afraid to ride these waves, unrelenting, never-ending.
We think it is easier.
But, here I stand, so dirty, worked hard,
And even though I try to wash my feet before bed,
letting the mud of the tended soil
to come to bed clean,
to keep the night sacred,
to touch the holy space that is you and I, together,
with feet as clean as a Daughter of God,
But this summer of dirty feet,
and your touch, simple, gentle,
fully upon them,
it is all just about growing, right?
We can’t do anything else and survive.
And besides, this is all I have ever known how to do.
I’ve always invited the mud..