Dirty Boots

I hear your heavy boots thump
towards my lake house. You drudge
in, and track mud from the water’s bottom.

While my windows paint portraits of green
trees and blue waters, your wellingtons
engrave circles on my clean, white rug.

Boats that glide the surface are begrudged
by you as you wade into the deep,
ignoring the safe, ignoring the comfort.

Then you drag the lake’s mire
to the surface into my hands,
to clean and pamper each hefty boot.

I cannot be your safe boat.
Only you can wash then remove
each boot that gutters the calm water.

You must be the safe boat,
the calm boat, that sails the surface,
and never again wear the boots
that dig into the mud.