Feet

Her nodding foot, puffy and pregnant,
lies a serene loaf in my hands,
balls folding into cups.
I press the spongy padded flesh,
easing creased and crumbled arches,
coaxing thick, proud ridges crowning toes.

They step high, stamping spattered snow,
and drift along old kitchen roads,
skim her husband’s sock-lined calf
as she shuffles in sleep.
They travel bedded stones to visit
wind-swung aster hung in plastic bowls.