I want to hear the crisp clean crumble,
Of dried leaves under my riding boots as we tumble,,
Down, down the hill, rolling in colours of burnt orange, browns and greens,,
Frolicking in fall hues as my pants stay put in my boot, pristine.,
But I will stay warm, caressed by the finest Italian leather.
When the air becomes crisp, my knee-high boots will unfurl,
Out of the closet and paired with my Joeffer Caoc Obi skirt, cute in fall weather.
When my breath mists the air,
I’ll step out in suede booties and Bleu Forêt tights, what fanfare.
But that’s not all; my pewter wool Chloe Angus wrap will shine,
Paired with buttery brown leather, shiny gold buckles, entwined.
Oh Cole Haan and Donald J Pliner,
You’ve evaded my dreams and held me in boot-rapture.
It might only be September, but my mind is on leather and suede; materials finer.
I need your boots, my heart is yours, captured.
For whatever will I do, once fall fades to winter?
And the snow is three feet deep, what if I splinter?
There shan’t be a worry, because I’ll look smashing in OVER the knee boots!
It’ll look so hot with my Fidelity denim; a movement will start – grassroots.
There you have it, in prose form,
My ”Ode to the Boots That Have Yet to Arrive.”
But I know my boot-ardour is not alone; in fact Filosophistas will swarm,
As boxes of boots land and this poem will be decoded in closets, derived.
Until next time my Filosophistas,
XOXO,
– F