History Written In Footprints

I am what I have done.
An accounting of thorns and halos.
A gesture of intention and direction.
A temple and worshipers.

I keep doing.
Some days a spooked horse running.
Other days a rabbit hopping bush to bush.
And still others I am malleable red clay from the river bank.

Yes, there are skeletons, but no closets.
And bushels of forbidden fruit eaten,
as some mistakes hide wisdom better than others.
Yes, our savage kisses left a tale of smoke wagging against the sky.

My wounds are puckered white and purple scars.
My knuckles bloody from fighting back.
A gravedigger wants just enough business to survive,
but not so much to thrive.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

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