The Umbrella

My left shoe came off in the rain
as I walked between the garden and the city.
The exposed sock frayed and disintegrated
and my foot bloodied the rock.
All the people came ‘round to shout and point,
to tell me one foot was bloody,
but I did not heed them, for I could not see.
I had scales in my eyes
and none had the sanctity to remove those scales;
the burden rested on God.
I did not see Him in the rain, but they shouted that He was there.

The scales fell out, washed away by clean rain
and I turned and saw them all behind me, still shouting of God and bloody feet.
They did not see me in the rain, but they were sure that I was there.
The rain had washed my blood free of the rock
and it now soaked the black soil instead.
I picked up my shoe and walked back to the shouters.
I gave it to one, and I saw scales in his eyes.
I took off the right shoe, for it did not fit anymore.
I gave it to another and smiled, for the two with shoes had stopped shouting.
The rain lessened.

3 Apr. 2004