Without Flinching

Without Flinching

Stretching my toes
in the damp blanket of leaves,
I hear the voice in my head
"You’ll track mud on the carpet,
or come down with a cold." 

Then I hear that other voice.
The whisper of my heart saying
"this is the only way
to feel her heartbeat,
to really know your mother."

One voice pulls, the other listens,
silently, for it knows I will return,
someday, and my feet
will know the Earth again.

My ears will grow deaf
to the voice of hesitance and fear
and my body will become immune
to the cries of loneliness
from human islands, castles
with stone walls,
who dig their own motes.
Then, flinching with pain,
fill these motes
with their own tears.

Someday, I will walk
through the forest
without flinching with pain
from rocks and acorns
beneath soft skin,
unaccustomed
to life without insulation.

Until then, I will return
to this forest, stretch my feet
beneath the damp, fallen leaves,
dig my toes into the cold earth.

Through a wireless world,
beyond the dreams of my people,
I will learn to make footprints
through paths less traveled,

without flinching.

SWPoet

11/10/09