Boots

In the South there are old Graves and ancient oaks That hang with the beards Of past men. Below them I walk as if in a coliseum Of sages. They await q u e s t i o n s. I wonder if in my pockets Of dust I have the right Questions. They are watchful Over the graves here, Strange graves, with stones Where the feet could be. Why do the graves today No longer have the boot Stones? Where have the legs Of humanity gone? The wind blows Arousing the beards’ Words which speak Through the thinned leaves; “Where are your legs?” They ask. “I don’t know”, I say, “I’ve always been Floating. Where in the world Does on find the ground?”