Through the Mud

The closet exhales

dust and forgotten time.

There they are, shoved back,

a collapsed, leather-bound memory.

My Appalachian boots.

The scuff marks like old scars,

each one a root caught, a rock slipped.

The laces, half-chewed by some trailside squirrel,

or just worn thin, frayed white

where the loops rubbed.

I run my thumb over

the dried mud caked in the treads,

still holding the shape

of some distant mountain,

some long climb.

My feet ache just looking at them,

a phantom pain of miles,

of mornings where my socks were wet

before the sun was up.

What I wouldn't give

to be that tired again.