To feel the warmth of dark earth;
at night standing very still to feel
the vibrations of tunneling worms;
especially the chilled black mud
at low tide that oozes deliciously
between their toes.
 
Unsocked,
their feet are never cold
even on un-rugged kitchen tiles
cold as ice in winter
and especially not while escaping
out the then-slammed screen door
into the morning’s dewy grass.
Especially not there.
 
Nor do they heed warnings
about splinters
poison ivy
or the possibility of dog-doo.
 
In addition
they are generally impervious to cold
refusing jackets and sweaters
or leaving them open
as we try to project our shivering on them.
 
We,
well-shod in all seasons,
except while swimming;
never having been allowed
in our rigid-ruled stony pasts
to be cold
 
so deprived
of the touching wind on skin
alive with goose-bumps
especially spontaneous joy
and surely, the wonder of
worms.


© by Carol Amato.
Used here with the author’s permission.