The paint on her toes, curled against the cold,
unearths me. How it begins. This winter light.
She has: a dish to sell, and red soil ground into the fold
of a letter. Her toes, curled against the cold.
She gives me her name. Two bags that hold
a spoon for bread, her smile, wide as the sky,
and the years she has walked. Her toes,
curled against the cold. How it begins.
This winter light.
