Walking

This has been one of the hardest poems for me to write to date. I went on a writing retreat this past weekend, and at the end of our time there, we had to share something we'd written. I tried for almost two days straight to get this poem to come together, and it simply wasn't working. For being on a writing retreat, I think I wrote less than I ever have in that amount of time, considering I set out conciously to write. It still doesn't feel completely finished, but here is a poem about walking. Enjoy.

I tried to write a poem about walking:

How my mother used to tell me not to scuff my feet;

How my sister walks so firmly that

I learned to walk lightly instead;

How my father has long legs and doesn’t mind being almost late;

How I have short legs and learn to

Walk fast because I’d rather be too early;

[I tried to write a poem about walking]

But my pen couldn’t translate

The memories from my mind

I tried to write a poem about walking:

The way I never notice the earth moving beneath my feet,

An act too undemanding and commonplace

To be celebrated regularly, even by recognition;

An act so purely physical

It doesn’t expect a description;

An act so simple, it never asks for an audience

[I tried to write a poem about walking]

But the more I walked,

The less I thought about walking

I tried to write a poem about walking:

Remembering places I have gone

Experiences I’ve been allowed,

All because I can walk.

My mind filled with memories of conversations

Walking has been a way to experience:

Traveling (across cities and countries)

Growing friendships, (new and old)

[I tried to write a poem about walking]

And I forgot again to be grateful

That I have able feet

I tried to write a poem about walking.

And it didn’t turn out.

And it didn’t turn out.

And it didn’t. Turn. Out.

So I wrote about writing about walking,

And it turns out,

I wrote a poem about walking anyway. 

~C.R. Sutton

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