I am in the shoes of someone
who refuses
to grow roots in heaviness.
L
i
g
h
t
e
r
These shoes pass through sorrow
without drinking from it.
There is a thin light on the ground.
Barely visible.
Still enough to step on.
Shoes notice.
Shoes stay.
Not everything asks to be carried.
When weight gathers,
these shoes loosen their hold.
They move toward joy.
Not as escape.
As direction.
And step by step,
light stops being a moment
and becomes the ground.