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Steps

We would see her on a Sunday,
Cleaning the sweep of steps
That led to her blue painted door.
She always wore a scarf, the
Corners tucked in around her head.
It did not matter what sort of weather,
She weathered it all in her quest
For the cleanest steps in the street.
In summer, the door would be left ajar
And a glimpse of a rocking chair
And slipper bound foot would be seen.
This appendage was like an apparition
A headless corpse and a mystery.
We never fully saw the owner
And from Autumn to Spring,
No sight, just the hum of her as
She cleaned her steps of routine.
Sometimes I think of her as
I walk by on different streets,
The steps here all seem clean
And the magic of her, just a dream.

Poetry by Elle