I'm standing on my grandmother's stoop,
just outside the front door.
My arms, the wings of an airplane,
rigid and outstretched,
end at clumsy fingers, clad with mitten,
pressing the glowing doorbell.
In one swooping motion as the door swings open,
the aging woman bends down,
for she hears my need for dry socks and steaming soup.
My red cheeks tell her,
and the snow whispers "The little girl is cold,"
as it rests on the hairs of my head,
as the feathers rest, fluffy and light,
on the chest of the finch, who watches me with one eye
from the winter wild bird feeder hidden among the shrubs.
The woman draws near,
her lips a thermometer on my forehead,
measuring how hot to make my soup.
"Oh my!" she yelps. "You poor thing."
"Come inside where it's warm."
I am poor.
My pockets hold no money to offer her,
in exchange for her attention.
But of course she seeks none; I am her child,
born of the daughter from her own womb.
She is a tower but her eyes remain at my level,
assessing my need.
How did she make herself so small?
And her gaze so loving?
It lifts up my heart,
as her arms lift up my small frame at the waist
to take me inside.
She stooped,
like the concrete stairs holding me up!
Who is like her,
who stands so high
but drops so low to raise me up?
