Bare Feet following the crooked, curvy, paths.
Paved roads are soon forgotten.
And not missed.
My eyes directed towards the soft ground,
Where the grass is forever on its knees,
Bowed to the majestic tires
Of whatever happens to choose this way.
Even more obedient is the grass,
To the bare, vulnerable, and the simple feet
Of the soul that wanders.
The soft dirt hangs onto anything,
And strives to be appreciated.
It receives a look and a smile,
Completing its purpose.
And the unmowed grass moving and swaying
To the beat and the rhythm of the wind.
This triggers the grasshoppers.
Soaring like missiles and darts,
Aiming right for the moving target, a warfare,
But enjoyable. And longed for.
All of this creating a melody.
Incredibly pleasing.