In which I replace the word “hopes” with the word “feet”
after Nico Wilkinson
My feet move me toward a future I am quite unsure of.
But while I ask so much of my feet,
with all these dreams of forward motion,
they cannot answer.
Sometimes, though, simply having feet is
the best answer you can ask for.
Sometimes, I move at more of a crawl.
My feet, forgotten somewhere behind me,
cannot do the work I’ve asked of them.
I must drag myself back to the start,
find my feet again, wipe away the grime
and stand again, bolstered by renewed foundation.
Even so, my feet are complicated things.
Turning numb, stinging, collapsing at their joinings,
Occasionally, I turn my hatred toward them,
wonder at their use. All before I remember
there is cruelty in forcing anything
to act solely at my will.
So, I will be gentle to my feet now,
care for them, give them room to breathe,
accommodate the way they swell
on days I believe in them more fiercely.
Forgive them for being as unpredictable
as this body they are bound to.
I think there is a commonality
in how we treat our feet and ourselves,
how we treat that which is foundational.
Even when we find our feet
cannot be used in the way we wish
should we not answer with grace?