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Seven Pairs Of Iron Shoes

The first pair of shoes I wore out
was for your forgiveness. Racked with guilt,
I pursued you with single intent,
barely ate or slept, accepted the heat,
the cold, the wet misery and stumbling weariness
as my due. I had failed you. It was only just.

Throughout the second pair, I hated you.
I followed you only because I forgot I could stop.

Many places looked familiar by the third pair,
and I found I knew the coming weather by the taste
of the wind. I was no longer afraid of snakes,
and I placed my feet with care
so as not to trample small things. By the fourth,
I moved silently and did not realize it.

From then on, I roamed for wonder alone,
and slipped through the years like a wolf
through tall grass. I had long since stopped counting
when I heard stories of a land east
of the sun and west of the moon,
and I thought, there's a place I haven't walked to yet.

So here we stand, face to face at last,
both of us older, and both of us changed.
I look at you across the distance
of seven pairs of iron shoes,
and I am glad I found you not one moment sooner,

for iron, as they say, will break enchantments,
and I have no illusions about us now.
Now my sight is true, and now
is the moment when I can choose,
as I could not have chosen before,
whether to offer you my hand, or kiss you once,
for memory's sake, and walk on.


Written by Tracina Jackson-Adams