I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

Not sheets of rain,

Not a drizzled, pounding background,

But a pillow of rain.

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

A smothering, fluffy pressure

That blocks out companions sound,

And noises of anything but the dirt path.

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

A lovely rain of playful hands

That lift and twine my hair about

And baptize me with their singularity.

I’m sorry Mom

I broke your shoes.

And settled at the bottom of the pillow,

Great gaping puddles of confused color.

Just an unfathomable ankle-deep

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.

So, as drizzled hands urge me on,

I sleepily drag my feet through the puddles,

Feeling the pull of the bottom sand on the sandal straps.

I’m sorry Mom,

I broke your shoes.