each footfall is organic and precise
melding to the pavement underfoot
wet or dry, dead moss or sodden leaves
or last year’s fir needles. Each hillside speaks
the labored rhythm of my breath, my bellows-lungs,
the pistons of my thighs— Down. Up. Down. Up.
These hills will know my feet, but not as shoes,
one pair among ten million trampling past
in haste. These sidewalks will remember toes
that like fingers gripped, caressed, lifted
reluctant from a loving clasp. Toes
that scanned the Braille message in the pebbled
pavement and said yes, yes! I know you
and now you know me.