walking boots

chestnut leather, oiled three times in their first year and once every autumn since. the right boot's laces have been re-tied without being re-threaded; the left's tongue is creased from a foot that stood at the top of a hill, breathing.

they last walked the route you walked with him, in a weather that turned, in a season that did not. the soles still hold a little of the high field — a wedge of mud, set hard, with one seed of grass still in it. the seed will not grow here. it does not know it cannot.

the boots stand on the cupboard floor in the mudroom, toes pointing inward, ready. the cupboard above holds the overcoat they belong with; the cupboard below holds nothing.

field-note: an oak leaf inside the right boot, between sole and lining, dry as paper, dated by no one.