The air is warming up, you know what that means.

Time has come where my feet can be freed of its rubber soled cage.

Can feel the hot, the cold, the smooth, the rough.

But most importantly, they can wade through your liquid crystal rapids.

Mud can squelch between each toe,

a cold sliminess that tries to hold each foot down.

I can balance on your tricky slippy rocks,

retrieving foul balls that wonder in;

no one else wants to strip down to their bare toes or get their shoes all wet.

I’ll gladly go and enter your pools,

Listening to your distant babble.

Soon my dear.



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