Poems for the waiting time

Poems for the waiting time

Poetry

Apr 25

Written By Suzi Wollman

Barefoot Blessings

I slip off my shoes and find the dust,

soft as a whisper beneath my feet,

the old country road warm with stories,

rising in puffs with every step.

Down to the stream, I wander slow,

where water chatters over polished stones,

and coolness kisses my dangling toes,

laughter running between my heels.

Then through the meadow’s green embrace,

the grass, sweet and tickling, wraps my soles,

each blade a hymn, each step a prayer,

barefoot and blessed in the heart of the world.

The Country Beneath My Feet

The road gives way to dust,

warm and silvered in the sun,

a soft and ancient welcome

under wandering, bare feet.

I wade through fields of hush and hum,

to streams that sing against the stones,

dangling dreams into the waters,

cool and clear and full of sky.

The grass is green enough to breathe,

and tender as a prayer,

wrapping round my toes and heels,

a living lullaby of earth and air.

Here, barefoot in the breath of land,

the whole wide world slows down to listen.

Barefoot Roads

Dust on my toes,

grass on my skin,

stream on my heels,

and peace seeping in.

Shoes tossed aside,

hurry forgot—

the land knows my name

even when I do not.

Where My Feet Cannot Go

I close my eyes and find the road,

the soft dust rising in lazy swirls,

warming the soles of feet I have not yet freed,

but remember still.

The stream sings somewhere just beyond,

a cool silver ribbon over stone and root,

where my toes dangle in dreaming waters,

and the breeze hums low.

The grass is green beneath my thoughts,

sweet and wild and full of summer sighs,

and though my feet stand on city stone,

my spirit runs barefoot through the fields.

One day, the dust will cling again,

the stream will kiss my skin,

and the grass will wrap my steps in green.

But even now—

even now—

I walk the countryside in my heart.

A Letter to the Fields

I have not touched your dust in many days,

nor waded your singing streams,

nor let your grasses thread my toes

with their green, laughing fingers.

Yet in the hush between the hours,

I find you.

In the stir of the wind against a windowpane,

in the cool memory of water slipping over stone,

in the breathless ache of a sky too far away—

you come to me.

And though my feet rest on city ground,

my soul still runs barefoot through your fields.

One day,

I will come back.

One day,

I will kneel in your dust,

trail my hand through your streams,

and press my heart into your living green.