The feet that follow me are thin
and shining, smooth as feathers.
Even to the glass and the broken
they are angels from some wrong
turn in my body.
They return eye to eye
to help my heart out of itself.
These are the faithfully silent,
the hidden risings of necks
to the beaks of flowers.
These are the outcasts that tell me
not to show my hand.
Prayers fly back from their high place,
prayers that wait for spring
and prayers with blessings for ribs
stop here, with me
they become feet with each proper
I am under the road, part destination,
part monument halo rising up
through the cool mud
into air gone silver with speed.
I am an agent of the thing that follows
my faith’s body, walking the slow rocks.
The trees praise and make wing
to point the way against a white
white music that marks the days.
Feet that know my feet
stain the horizon where I’ve been.
My thin follower, floating benediction,
our wings together make us whole enough
to touch the skies of grace.