I came across these boots on the street where I live. A gardener’s boots taken off momentarily, only to be forgotten, then remembered –after it was too late? A pair that had out worn their usefulness, only to be cast aside like the nearby discarded lime halves?

What stories rest mute inside these weathered strips of leather? What pain, what joy, truthfulness, and deceit had brought these boots to this moment, this end? Like a writer’s words on a page, these boots carried with them a lifetime of their owner’s experiences, occurrences that had informed every step their owner took–every word the writer wrote.

Which of your life experiences will be revealed–or concealed– in the steps you take today, the words you commit to the page?