Many years ago, I wrote a few sonnets.
For once you had such very little feet
That traipsed and danced and played like all the rest
On playground sands with sweet young boys you’d meet
When trees would show the colours you liked best.
And still the autumn is your favorite time
Despite the knowledge of what is to come;
The long and lonely hours atop the climb
To keep the hands and heart from going numb.
You fight the wind and rain and sleet and frost
While trying – oh so hard – not to recall
Any but the simplest of pleasures lost:
A sip of something warm, though very small.
It hurts to see just what those feet became
Wrapped in layers of socks and scraps and shame.