BLONDE HAIR AND OLD FEET

—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.