Beneath My Feet

By John I. Blair

Beneath my feet
Oak wood spreads
Golden graining.

Ancient trees
Gave their lives
So I might tread this beauty.

Due respect
Should mean I care
With cloth and wax;

Instead I roll my chair
Across this space
Day by day

Until the oak is worn,
The graining marred,
The gold stained.

Grant me the grace
That my own glow
Will not be treated so.

©2018 John I. Blair, 10/29/2018