Yes!
I cleansed my feet in the water of the creek when I returned from the hill. I sat me on a rock, extending my bare feet in the sunlight. I thought that towel-wiping was too much of a modernism.
“Uncle! O Uncle!” I called.
“What is it, Miss Morning Glory?”
The poet jutted out from a bamboo bush by the wooden bridge over the creek.
“Such charming feet!” he said.
I instantly lowered my skirt, blushing.
He was carrying a spade and hoe. He said that he had been planting flowers about the grave of our friend, ever since four o’clock. “To make it beautiful is high poetry,” he philosophised.
“What do you wish with Uncle, my child?” he continued.
“I want my shoes.”