By now, she will have lined up the snow boots,
    Six shoes for three babies already gone,
    They’d peel there, caked, and empty with the thought,
    Our missing feet were already too long.

    Maybe once, clumsy, she slips a pair on
    To brave the glass mailbox in gutters grey
    Looks back, bittersweet, at her own footprints
    She made with his shoes as he very may.

    Only after she clutches the letters,
    Mottled by snow and addressed to old shoes,
    She kicks off the boots, toe drawing heel, to
    Nudge them back in those lines as she chooses.


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