Shoes

Shoes are but coverings,
To my feet.
They are...but cushions,
From off the street.

Full vessels...they are,
That empty-out...at night.
Wrapping on our feet,
In a wrong, and a right...

They keep away,
The bleed...the torn.
The stinging pricks,
From off the thorn.

They take me where,
I wish to roam.
And turns my step,
To love at home.

From sin's deep pits,
And slimy rocks.
They help me scale,
My stumbling-blocks.

Shoes are but council,
With wisdom sublime.
They guide my steps,
On the sands of time.

E.P. 1908 - 1989

Ethel's great, great, granddaughters. Ethel would have loved a nice pair of Crocs in her day.