Gravel
--for Wyatt
I know the dance well,
straddle-footed skipping
barefoot over gravel;
ungraceful waltz on rocks
my nephew makes
from house to barn,
wet and naked,
like something feral
come from the woods
to raid the chicken coop,
shelter in the warm barn.
I remember similar
shoeless afternoons
braving for pond or creek
the driveway gravel,
where missteps left one
bouncing, bounding
to the grass with sore feet,
the dance a way of moving
through spaces of pain
to safety on the margins
where the fun was:
no time for shoes
in the brief afternoons.
It can’t be just
the two of us
who couldn’t be coaxed
into covering
our sensitivities
to rocks and thistle,
groundhog holes
and stinging things—
couldn’t be the only ones
too careless to mind
for a time at least
the too well-placed traps
of the unhemmed world.
Photo by Vatroslav Bank on Unsplash