Afoot.

I do this seep, it pours down under, my feet in broken blades from the freshly cupping hold of softly pooling water. Soother tall to cup nature’s buoyant drops; to them my bleeding hands of water, porous in effervescently a drop held, the rippling atone of open skies. In a ever inclusion, the infinite of ephemeral misty lather, a rising in mode, the glistening morning due.

2019 Adam Blewett ©