boot straps

I've been told one can judge a man based on the quality and condition if his shoes. 

my boots are old. my feet have pressed miles into their soles. the scuffed toes and dusty cracks speak of labor, early mornings, manure. I oil them and pray.

I am working three jobs earning dollars and pride.

I pray for one more week-- as if that span will provide me clarity of mind.

my heart beats along as I wake in the predawn hours to pick up a hammer so that I can buy new boots that don't have miles if history cracked into the cracks. 

love, my love, lifts the edges of oblivion

scours the terrain

feasting