To my own two feet

When I first arrived

footling-breeched

you two were there

ahead of me.

Although

unable to stand

as yet, toes wriggling

like hungry sea polyps.

Later, we wobbled

thru time's hourglass

wearing shoes,

laughter and lies

for their modest protection.

Sometimes barefoot

at the beach,

toes full of good

intentions then. Learning

that peculiar landscape

called hope. Nails growing

without notice, intentional malice

occasionally trimmed back.

Still later feet-tripping over

things in those dark

opening and closing

wings inside us:

hubris, love, close friends,

parenthood, hair loss,

searches for meaning to

non-meaning, skepticism.

Grace too as in stars

brightening our midnight

into something like prayer.

Eventually aging generously--

nonetheless nervous at airport

escalators, walking strip malls'

cloned abundance, cholesterol

and other waxy substances.

Finally, my two feet tripping

into an open grave. Toes

now straight up while

going two feet under.