Sometimes when I walk,
I hear my steps echo loudly
as though my presence is an audio offense,
pavement and grit rejecting me.
I know I don’t fit in places where my shoes
are click-clacky, and I inwardly cringe there
while forging ahead, pretending I’m
a “can-do” gal with purpose from
the era of Hepburn’s “Desk Set.”
The places I belong are forgiving
of my size and what I carry with me.
Moss doesn’t just tolerate, it accepts.
I can pull away barriers and toss aside
worry and pain and feel lighter
in the arms of the one who loves me
here in this place of trees and streams.
Moving at all some days feels
like a monumental challenge, as difficult
as carving movement in marble,
but as the seasons filter through my woods,
I walk and feel my steps as gentle
as a falling feather, which means hope
in some language of flight.
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