I walk barefoot on the edge
of the woodland, careful
to sidestep the cracked acorns,
hickories and black walnuts
dropped by the acrobat squirrels.

My feet embrace no grief
just the tangled roots of tomorrow
toes working the ground
in a wet spongy province
proving there is no settling
in nature as wind and grasses
blow their evening message

slow down, watch your step
light is always switching direction

My neighbor’s grandson is eight.
He hates wearing shoes, loves to walk
with me along his grandfather’s plot.
I imagine this barefoot farmer boy
and his turning, as he roams through
a forest he will own looking up at the ripe
hackberries and dangling nuts of hickory and oak
soon to be stamped into the next generation.

Mary Wehner writes from the shore of Lake Winnebago. She is also a visual artist and leans towards nature and the abstract in her work. She has published in journals across the states and has won several poetry prizes. She has recently had a poetry collection published as well as a letter press chapbook through Red Hydra Press.