Poet Commentaries

My Walker

The leaf rolled beside her,
unshod and long past supple.
It chattered along with clicked skips
and a breezy gait;
finally matching her pace.
It was the leaf’s monologue
that drew my eye to her.
She was stealth.
There was no spring in her step;
no season at all.
No drooped fall shoulders
or swagger of spring.
Nothing sultry.


It was not the leaf,
the push of traffic,
or pulse of street lights
that paced her
though they all kept up.


I looked long
pondering tuned instruments,
and pebbles in shoes.
I wanted to learn her tune.
To hear the way
waves lapped her core.
To hear the beat
of this solo drummer
and feel the pull of the oars
through her sinew.
I wanted to watch her prow
crest and fall
generating this wake
that pulled along that leaf.


Her father would be proud
and I did beam.

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