paired like matching socks, floating on calves down
the quiet hallway. She didn’t make a sound.
She didn’t touch the stairs. Her hands remained
clinging to the banister, faithful nails dug deep
never letting her trip. At the door,
she took off her legs. She left
them with the firewood, dreaming
of smooth ash, piled in a glass urn, gleaming
in the sunset, precariously perched
on the edge of the living room mantle, taking up
hardly any space. Taking in the view. Her arms
she threw into the garden, to sink
beneath the fresh mulch burying the old
soil stinking like the coming of spring.