A Footstool

A Footstool

Lying prostrate
before two feet,
they appear as if
giant roots
curled like fingers
into the earth’s masses.

If I glance skyward,
I trust the mighty arms—
endless branches
lifting as if in praise
and adoration.

my face
lies in the deep darkness
of mud…crusted, cracked
and my lips
kiss the soils~~~soft, moist.
Yes, exactly where
the ‘roots’ hold themselves—

I attempt to SEE,
to touch
what lies below
but, I would have to 
shovel my way to its
core…its heart.

Would I then trust
the darkness?
Would I believe in 
the unknown,
the quaint, quiet
unfamiliar silence?

The growing awareness
of unforeseen life
—a light blathering
in penetrating pools…
No camera can capture.
No picture visible.

the growth
before labor pains.
Two feet balance on the ground.
A prostrate soul refuses to rise until its time.
A heart beats

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