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| Poetry from Richard Spillman | ||
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Published . . .
Feb. 16, 2013 |
His Feet The first time I saw him this man walking up a dusty road this man I had heard of this man whose face I wanted to see some day but today was not going to be that day I was blinded by the setting sun behind him His face melted into the brilliance of that sun As I looked down I could see his feet he was walking barefoot as if he wanted to be directly connected to the ground his feet were unremarkable I was somewhat disappointed what did I expect? his footprints however were different they were full of detail the outline of every toe the hills and valleys of every crevice I could see it all they remained in place for me to examine as if the dirt couldn’t rush in to erase them I placed my foot in one of the prints to my surprise it fit perfectly as if it had been my foot walking on the ground that day for a moment I considered walking in his perfect footprints but I didn’t want to go where he was going - - - - - - The second time I saw him this man I had heard of this man whose face I wanted to see some day but today was not going to be that day he was walking along a cobble stone road once again bare footed this time he was carrying a cross it rested on his shoulder and blocked my view of his face but once again I could see his feet they still would have looked normal if it wasn’t for the blood caked all over them they appeared blackened and red I watched standing in a crowd as his blood dripped onto the cobblestones I noticed his blood did not run between the cobblestones instead it remained on top of each stone as if the stones did not want to give it up Once again he left footprints, bloody footprints that remained long after his passing I put my foot on one and it fit perfectly as if it had been my foot bloodied and bruised that day for a moment I considered walking in his footprints but I didn’t want to go where he was going - - - - - - The third time I saw him this man I had heard of this man whose face I wanted to see some day but today was not going to be that day he was hanging high above me from a cross his face hidden in the darkness but once again I could see his feet they were nailed into the cross at eye level his feet were covered in tears that coated the blood my tears were mixed in with others I stood there not understanding why why this man had to die like this As I looked at his beaten feet I was relieved I had not followed in his footprints before because I didn’t want to go where he was going - - - - - - - The fourth time I saw him this man I had heard of this man whose face I wanted to see some day I thought once again that today was not going to be that day It was not the setting sun that blocked my vision It was not a piece of wood that blocked my vision It was not the cross that blocked my vision he was walking towards me bathed in light light that radiated from his face light that I was not worthy to look at so I looked down at his feet this time he stopped in front of me he put out his hand and raised my face “now you can look at me” he said I looked and I saw him I saw love I saw peace I saw mercy it was almost more than I could bare once again his footprints remained on the road after he passed by I put my foot in one of them, it fit perfectly so I put my other foot in the next one and decided I was going to follow him because I wanted to go where he was going. |
with permission
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