Knitting is how I love you, Feet. Sock yarn
dyed to art covers the deep arch and the roll
of heel, hard and cracked like land after
volcanos, after wind and water, small stones
rolled down deep crevasses. Air, who thinks
she owns us, passes through us to others, as does
the generous water. But the dirt that stains
your thick skin remains. Feet, you are my
priestesses. When we rest in death’s darkness,
I will cloak you in blue for the water flowing
onward and yellow for the fleeting air,
but you with your skin have absorbed the red
of dirt—which is ours and the Earth’s, no others’.

Judge’s Comments:
I admire how the author takes something ordinary and not particularly beautiful—feet—and sings a song of contagious praise. “Ode to My Feet” takes us out of ourselves, connecting the seen and unseen—land, water, air, earth, faith, life, death, and yes, even the art that allows us to re-see all of the above as extensions of our own bodies. This poem travels far in one short stanza.