Sally

Sally had a hangnail on her left fourth toenail.
Irksome though the agnail be
Sally chose not to see.
Sally drew the conclusion
that the hangnail was an illusion.
Her claw ensnared many a thread on the bedclothes in the night.
Grew to proportions out of control.
Spiked the very fabric of her life

Stalwartly though,

Sally strolled onward through her days.
One foot then the other

in a blissful, mindless haze
Conversed with the earth,
Sally plodded her trusted soles
taking along her wounds
her weary, unhealed soul.

Sally marched

in blistering sun, rain, sleet and snow.
She sauntered until her hangnail grew itself quite old.
Over time and measured ground,
as galling things will do
Sally’s snag worked its way up, out and through.

Now Sally’s soles are worn.

Her soul has seen the dawn.

Though, she continues to walk

up hill, down and across.

Her hangnail, her irksome chafe

silent, without a sound.

Sally’s center has found it’s ground.

N.B. Wilde

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