How often do you walk or run?

Bare feet
on the cold floor.

Stepping.

To the kitchen.
The scent of coffee
rising like incense–
almost holy.

The birds
singing outside,
a conversation
through the glass.

I wonder
what they’re saying.

I walk
between the spaces.

Footsteps
soft as raindrops
on yielding ground.

My roots
are deep here,
slow and steady,
as a heartbeat.

No need
to scurry off.

I’m not a field mouse.
Just a dandelion seed,
drifting gently
in the breeze.