YELLOW BOOTS

"Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring.." -Neltje Blanchan

He wore yellow boots. For the first day of spring. New boots that smacked and  splashed. He stomped and  ran. They made a squelching sound. He liked that.

They were to jump in mud puddles. To  wear on walks, down the road , down the paths still sodden with rain and  crocuses. Paths and lanes of purple and yellow crocus.  He picked bunches of them, only to see them wilt  in his hands.

One path led to  a  long, low beach. Where the tide ran and crested along the sands.

He loved it here.  He would take off his yellow boots and run after seagulls dozing  by the shore. 

He liked to take sand in his grubby , little hands and dump it into the  boots, stuffing little shells way down into its sole. Sometimes little creatures found their way into his boots.

Then he'd wear them, full of sand,  to march around  and hum little songs that his mother sang to him.

That spring, his yellow boots were his companions to make believe. 

Once the colour of the sun, they grew dingy, torn at the edges. Filled with sand and rocks. He grew tired of them.

It was in the summer that he left one yellow boot in the rocks by the shore. He couldn't find it. It floated out to sea. He went home with one yellow boot.

Spring and summer came and went . He forgot about that yellow boot. He  didn't play in sand anymore.

He grew and was grown. He  went to school. He forgot his old life. 

Didn't remember the souls of beautiful things crying out like Naiads in the  sea. He got tired of work. He was weary .

Until one year, he returned,  in the moonlight turned to dawn. He was still  thirsty. Not for water, but for that which was beyond all understanding. He felt that impulsive pull in the drowsy morning, where all was new again.

And he remembered  . He knew why he was called here. Even though the earth was still bare, he found himself, taking off his boots, to  stick his feet in the sand. To remember what it was like to not be weary.

He watched the sky paint itself with lavender, finding he  now did not thirst....

“Following dark winter's strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.”
― Phar West Nagle