Ode to a Missionary's Crocs

With hiking poles they clapped their soles
while strapped to backpacking sacks, and sang
their marching song with softer note to cookstove
cooked soup and tired heels and toes
rose-colored with climbing, walking, comforting
them cozy-like. Somedays, crocing, they slid
on mud amid puddles, squeaking wet and
clean with cold--but cradling feet in such a way,
contagiously congenial.

When winter whipped a fire-red
sheen across cheeks and stiffened beards
with beads of frosted snow, they worked with wool
and warmly wiped the windy blusters off and swept
them skating out through open windows, snuggling
about the chilly feet a lullaby of soft sole and
curving length sprinkled with holes.
Travelers, they lately tromped amongst trials
and children, sharing smiles despite a thinning
life of labor, flying with fever-relievers and bearing
help to souls by bearing him.


Faithful, they, even when holing, forbearing
several rocks only to bruise and black his arch, doing what
a pair of recycled tire bits, rough, dark, blistering, though trusty,
will never do.