Under the porch out back
I found an old shoe.
The pores of the leather were sewn up by frost.

In the place one might expect a foot,
there was a crabapple, and a bird,
dead too young for the luxury of feather.

Some compassionate child believed
that food and shelter could sustain life.

I left them, both quite still,
to the passacaglia of the owls and wind.

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