Green, luxurious!

Whispers each strand,

in the breeze,

feeling freshly cut.

The smell lifts a smile.

You stand on the edge,

toes almost touching.

Only way to be is

Barefoot.

With each toe

a distinct

Imprint,

a fossil

to say you

were there

so everyone

can stare.

Of course, this means

they will know.

But if the sign

that tells me not to

can be harshly

shoved,

pushed into the soil,

tearing grass from

underneath,

why not my

Impression.

A simple print in sand.

A little disturbance

of folding or

pressing down

some strands.

Caress my toes,

between,

cushioned the soft

bottoms of my feet

like a pillow around

my head.  Not

torn underneath,

just laid on.

You can’t resist.

It’s an urge to

be grounded,

and free

to touch the

untouched.  It’s been

such a long time.

Placing a toe,

the balls of my feet,

then to the heel

a foot.

Maybe two feet.

Maybe even a butt,

and legs, back,

arms, and head.

Little green,

smooth, untouched,

you say till now…

Wrapped around you,

Grass.

Now, forget your shoes

stand up and move on.

You’ve left your

Impression behind.