Old feet look, to me,

Like the gnarled lower trunks

Of ancient mountain laurel bushes

In the woods here, in winter.

Skin layered like thick bark,

Nails, round twisted roots,

Spreading down.

People drink in the tiny sweet feet

Of babies

Like nectar,

And in our youth and middle years

We are shameless.

But how many feet of old

People in Boston

Have you seen lately?

They are hidden.

Under heavy shoes,

And dark socks,

Spring, summer, fall and winter.

These feet have so much to teach us,

If we only dare to look.

©  Susan Lynn Gesmer, Old Feet, 2009