—a three-year old describing her grandmother.
Do you know here have those old feet have been?
Places a granddaughter never could guess–
or even a daughter, who still is too young.
They’ve danced alone on cool spring grass,
printed sand left wet by the ebbing tide.
In stylish shoes, those feet have tripped
down a city street on some dark errand.
In heavy boots once, they climbed
a hill with a lover to watch the moon rise.
They have walked steady and soft
in a silent room so long that the wooden floor
still holds the memory of their restless tread.
And think of what those old feet
have pressed into earth:
the leaves of long summers,
drifts of dust from skin and stars,
bones and feathers and tears.
I wrote this several years ago, when a friend told me of this description of herself.