My feet talk to me.
They do that a lot now that I am getting older.
They chatter about Big Thicket hikes,
jumping volleyball spikes,
and running games of tag.
The phalanges yak about
and glacier assents.
The tarsals and metatarsals recall
when life was strong and fast and free.
Each and every movement-memory
is carefully filed away between the bones.
My timeworn feet rejoice
when God puts a spring in their step,
and a giddy-up in their gallop.
They sing when I waltz with my husband
and they giggle when sand settles between their toes.
My feet thank their Maker.
My feet also recount the feet of a man
who walked on a rocky road to a place known as “The Skull.”
It was a bloody death march,
made by Christ
out of love for his brothers and sisters.
His holy feet were punctured with nails
onto the wood of the cross.
He didn’t just talk the talk,
but he walked THE WALK!
And though the path is painful,
I choose to follow