rainboots

I took my rainboots for a walk.
I knew that they would never talk to me
the way I wished somebody would,
but as I stood out in the wind & rain I knew
I wouldn't hear them if they could.

I wanted them to see the day,
to present them to the world
& say, "Here we are! my rainboots and I."

Did they know what it felt like to fly
on a swing, grasping cold iron rings in your hands
& leaving your fingers to smell like rust?

Or swap the dust of the diamond
for puddles like lakes of fallen sky
& mud that suctions you to the ground?

Could they hear the thunder, humming
like the strumming of God's bass vocal chords
& resounding promise of His presence?

Did they understand what it meant
that the ice is being sent into the earth
& what worth there is in a tiny crocus bud?

But silly me! they are just rainboots;
their skin is made of rubber flesh
& they cannot soak in a poetic life,
so I did it for them, ad hoc,
and wrote this poem on a walk with my rainboots.

"I suppose that's how it looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it through poetry...and I think it's nicer...to look at it through poetry." - Anne of Avonlea