She stands rooted to the ground,

firm, an old oak tree. A pair

whispers—

toe nails painted

blue, meticulous

as her mother’s—

slyly, with the grace

of a fox, stepping through

blades of grass

squirming beneath.

Bare, plump, soft

but hardened from dirt,

gravel, filth. Once

doubting their smoothness,

tangerine lotion soothed

his fear of touching

her scarred, experienced feet.