Feet.

She could've been a dancer:
the way she skips
around the house
like a dainty mouse.

Feet begin as formless,
pudgey playthings;
turn into soft, white things
with peach pads;
become like deformed ape coils.

If she's still dancing when she's eighty,
on those withered things,
with songs pure and a voice sweet,
then maybe death hasn't wings
and life anchors happiness.