My heart’s been walking in soul sucking mud, the kind that pulls my shoes right off
As I slog through the muck from point a to point b. Bare feet carry gamely on, step by sticky
Step. Pick up my shoes and brace myself against gravity’s ultimate challenge. Falling
Face first into the mire is a real possibility. I’ve been here before. It’s not pretty.
Calloused
hands that carve or dig or plane,
roughed up, describe a textured
tale of hard years and harder days
whether laid end to end or stacked
in geologic layers: holocene, triassic,
permian. no oil struck or fossils
unearthed. jutting epidermal extensions,
thumb worn, subconsciously worrying
round and round. callous, unfeeling? or ultimate badge of survival?
Praying for Eyebrowz 