Lank hair that slips
easily behind protruding ears,
a jaw as square and boney
as spent horseshoes,
she's long ago given up
eating sensible in an effort
to keep herself thin.

Mornings, she slips
into boots, pulls the shovel
from where it hangs on the wall,
clears blocks of snow from the walk,
brews tea made of yarrow
and mountain mint.

She stretches low, touching
her toes to keep her back
from going out, tries a few
half yoga moves, the lion,
the cat, the duck, animal names
she makes up on the spot
for half-forgotten poses.

Last year she gave up
driving, sold the old Buick
to Elmer for too little cash.
Not much use, she couldn't
see at night, thought a curve
looked like the shadow of a tree,
a mailbox like a deer about to bolt,

and days she drove near off the road,
the jacked up trucks clattering gravel
as they passed. Sometimes she gave them
the finger, just to see if they'd
let up a little on the gas.

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