Underfoot

A half-living pothos of gold lingers. Still, empty,
without those well-worn planks underfoot—
ones we freed from a comfortable darkness—
how would our memories stand?

We feel them with our feet, from the bottom up. Grooves, ridges,
furrows joined and joining for a floor underfoot—
our eyes touch upon what remains of a home—
and we’re happy to have something under us.

Once a tree and many trees that offered air. Now, being,
unliving you hold it all up underfoot—
things measured and immeasurable—
and we wonder how we ever knew?

A golden pothos wanes into umber. Still, filled,
and filling the smallest gaps underfoot—
ones we rarely notice or feel—
our emptiness slowly makes its way underground.

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