Shoes
Shoes are but coverings,
To my feet.
They are...but cushions,
From off the street.
Full vessels...they are,
That empty-out...at night.
Wrapping on our feet,
In a wrong, and a right...
They keep away,
The bleed...the torn.
The stinging pricks,
From off the thorn.
They take me where,
I wish to roam.
And turns my step,
To love at home.
From sin's deep pits,
And slimy rocks.
They help me scale,
My stumbling-blocks.
Shoes are but council,
With wisdom sublime.
They guide my steps,
On the sands of time.
E.P. 1908 - 1989
Ethel's great, great, granddaughters. Ethel would have loved a nice pair of Crocs in her day.
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