Caked-on Soles

So what if I bend over
backward and brush my fingers in the
dust covered shoes haphazardly lining
the hallway?
I'll trace intricate patterns,
tug at the soles with their caked-on mud
from that walk in the woods.

I'll tilt my head back and look through
my legs,
imagining the perfect arc
of them coming to the other side so I can
stand back upright;
walk heel-to-toe,
shoulder-to-shoulder,
elbow-to-elbow,
hip-to-hip with your pensive memory.

I put the mud there myself:
I dug my hands into the wet earth,
stepped my sneakered feet into the holes and
slapped the two fistfuls on top.
I trapped my feet and hung my head back,
arms outstretched.

I was a tree.

I fell down, knocked the wind right
out of me as I heard the
squelching of my feet coming free.
I stared up at the sky and in the
clouds I saw your shape dreamily
passing in front of my eyes.

I went down to the stream,
washed my mud-splattered
hands and face, took my mud-soaked
shoes off and waded in the
ankle-deep water.

I'd show you this--
yes, yes, yes

I would.

The dust devours everything now.
Even your memory is covered in
those shades of grey and
tiny particles.
I traced intricate patterns in your
flesh with my eyes;
I wiped mud on your face and you left it.

I tugged at your caked-on memory
from that walk in the woods and you remained.