Felt

Tender I move with bare feet,
always bare, across stones
sharp as tiny broken shells,
on a dusty worn pine floor,
on boulders, perfectly placed,
begotten as snow flakes,
as blue whales and quaking aspen.
They bleed freely, these feet.
These feet, they cry and laugh,
fall joyfully calloused,
fly demigod-like, no, god-like.
They speak an invitation, 
a lullaby, an invocation.
They speak to you
like an umbrella in the rain,
a shawl around your shoulders,
to a seamstress a present of felt.