Dreaming Feet

I know my place in life like the palm of my hand

That is to say I don’t remember all these lines

They are as distinct to me as each grain of sand

Funny how, from a distance, they look so refined

If I could remember my lines, perhaps I’d speak

The words I’m supposed to say, with such sureity

I might even remember what it means to breathe

I might look around and take in the things I see

But when I look down and see every rivulet

Dried up and cracking in search of a new, deep well

A soft hand as my anchor, or wing, better yet

Anything… anything inspires stories to tell

Now I trace these lines to the corners of my mind

Where nothing makes sense without clever mystery

Yet still my place in life I cannot seem to find

Someday, mayhaps, I’ll learn something from dreaming feet

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Stories From Honduras

Lena Kvigne // Missionary

The Wandering Poet

Footsteps, Footprints and Words

The Holly Tree Tales

Stories and philosophy, borne out of my own experiences of life on three continents.

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