On days where the sun near rolls over the hill,
and the summer winds dance endlessly,
I notice something that makes all time still,
on the porch by the cherry blossom tree.
They’re beaten and worn and crusted with dirt,
and tarnished from long days of use;
the sight of them lying there makes my chest hurt-
your beautiful blue buckle shoes.
You wore them on Sundays, kicking pews in mass.
You wore them on rainy days; they splashed and they splashed.
You wore them paired with your favorite red dress,
and you wore them to bed, despite the protests.
Now they lie on the porch under that cherry tree,
soaking up sun and fading to gray.
They’re empty and forgotten and I wonder if they plea
for someone to take them away.
But they’re happy, I think, to be left there in peace,
and I know that you wouldn’t refuse
to let them lie in the dirt gathering sunshine and grease-
your beautiful blue buckle shoes.
Stellular Scribe 