BOUND FEET

BOUND FEET

By jtbleu

 

Stride

On cobble stone

The dead

Road like snowflakes

Mingling

In gentle descent

There is no resurrection

These particles

Only fall

Even if one

Awaits human touch

Some imprimatur

Yet they will die

Upon the soil

On this sweet earth

Rocks are cold

Hibernating

Plants and microbes

So minute

The weight of

Iron wagons on

Flat trails 

Ride the piles

And the white leaves

Pale traces

Of congealing gray

Pure

In the gloaming

A mass

Most holy

Of pied porcelain

Pounded

Icy and cool

Cold

Freezing snow

Silent icicles

Crushed hard as

Tiny feet

Stir the sherbet

To taste

The just dessert

Of their labors

And many tongues

Devour the flakes

Unwittingly

Changing the shape

Of nature and

Arouse these

Mended beauties

Continually in motion

Dreaming of luscious

Respite

But like Roman

Legions

Advancing

On the frozen world

Tonight—and so long ago

Vanquishing empires

Wooing the male beast

All are ground under

The pressure of light

Impressions

And the quiet

Moon—goes by

And they go by

Bound feet

Wrapped or shorn

A poet’s sad

Plaint for form

And structure

Out of slush

And piles

About to melt

Forever gone

Using mere words

To sculpt

A salvation

For them

As they stride

Or slide

Tripping along

Or awaiting

The gentle

Spring

The lark’s song

To live

Again

 

 

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