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Baby Feet

2 August 2004, 9 am | Poem

Baby feet love to play.
They are fresh and smooth and soft and plump.
They are not yet worn flat
    by the weight and toil of living life,
    and cramped by constricting shoes.
They are sensitive and responsive,
    with a fetal-like curl to the slightest touch.
Their toes wiggle with a joy for life,
    stretching to reach their full spread,
    to their full potential.
They are happy with anticipation,
    of skipping and hopping up the path,
    back to home in heaven.

Comments

  1. Just discovered your comment on my own site, Mark. Wanted to say “thanks” for stopping by and to tell you the Mark Twain story you extended made its way into my collection of such items. It’s a sad fact that many are probably guilty (Lord knows I’ve probably been there more than once) of having the words without the music…………..

    ∼ πλ · 2 August 2004, 3 pm · by Jim ¬

  2. It’s funny. I’ve just started reading poetry. I never have before. And I wrote a little poem too a week or so ago.

    I love this poem. I think it’s wonderful. I never thought about how our feet change as we get older and record the weariness of our lives.

    Blesssings to you and thanksgiving for God’s creative spark.
    Peace,
    Karen

    ∼ πλ · 2 August 2004, 7 pm · by Karen H. ¬

  3. I wear sandals a lot and the only time I have on either sandals or shoes is when I go out in public, and sometimes not even then. I am a barefoot boy, even at the advanced age of 57. So maybe my feet never lost their love for playing—I am even curling my toes right now. ;-)

    ∼ πλ · 4 August 2004, 8 am · by William Meisheid ¬

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