This Old Floor

Cotton morsels of breath
in oral morning wake ups
and sweaters still hugging
molars and bicuspids, I got
to have that coffee first!

Barefooted, I traverse
across the cold tiles made
for temperature gauges
during summer or winter.

As I prepare the pot to brew
small tears stream down
the corners of my crusted
eyes as I ponder the reasons
my bare feet of skin no longer
commune with our earth.

This old floor of stone gives me
this poignant solemn reminder
how once the mighty rock stood
strong atop and below earth’s
embracing arms of sand and soil.

And a place my heart longs for
the green rug that lines a Forest
floor. How sometimes I ache
inside while missing the groups
of Trees all huddled together
forming a magickal family.

Trying to survive in this man-
made erection of concrete,
wood and wire, I attempt to
surround me with surroundings
of the domicile my old soul
remembers.  I am getting
there. . .

This old floor of stone
comforts me each time my
bare skin touches it and
I never mind that the floor
Is too cold.  If anything, the
cold is my way of never
forgetting my kindred
roots and my companions
the Trees.