feet

In summer, we used to go barefoot
all the time, across the pasture behind the house,
through the bush, down the gravel road, our small
narrow heels white with callus, black with dirt.
We rode barefoot our bikes to the corner store
to buy gum and candy and Archie comics, hopped
barefoot over their rocky drive to the cool linoleum
refuge of the floor. Barefoot we ran to the lake, barefoot
and stupid we mowed the lawn, toes
unfearful of the blades and turning green as
old 7-up bottles. I stepped barefoot on a spider once
on the deck, crunch, to make you scream
and laugh at the same time. I loved my feet
as I loved all my body, whipcord and swift,
their crooked toes, their flexible arch,
naked and unafraid to the world.