Muddy
Lizzy Huitson

She brought the outside in whenever she could.
Soaked up the rain, let it flow
in tributaries down her calves.
The smell of feverfew painted her skin.
She filled her boots with petals, apple-peel sweet,
small as rice grains.
Her hair trapped flies, her eyelashes
snowflakes, every once in a while.
She’d shake like a dog, instinctive
and some little life, some fraction
of a fragment
of sentience would fly off into the room.
She trod mud into the carpet, but her footprints
were not like any other footprints.
Flowers grew in her footprints.