Two Feet

Two feet I have of comfort and despair,
two livelong friends who fare me forth and fort-

like hold me to myself, who tell me where
I am, ticklish yet able to absorb

my weight and make it theirs, each part
hard-pressed, shaped rough or smooth by use.

They tell me when I'm naked, sopping, all
reduced, what world seen from their vantage shows,

that big toes callused, full of sock fluff, still
in motion are more elegant than some

bridges. They remind me of a sliced pear,
each part whole, each of them mother and son.

They almost look the same, as sky to water,
held and apart, each one the other's daughter.