My legs at first are propellers,
old school and a bit rusty,
needing a good swing to get started.
Each step is an intention
and a decision—or not,
if I go only where my legs take me.
They have their own destination
in conflict with my staid plans.
They expand where I want to retract
and suddenly I am aloft,
my legs become jet engines
roaring with anticipation,
seeking the adventure I too often resist.
They are the masters of these marches,
lifting and striding of their own accord
moving me through streets familiar and foreign
my engine’s contrails marking the journey
and beating the pavements to a pulp.
When at last, in an act of defiance against them,
I feel the weight of the air too heavy
to maintain flight
and descent is imminent,
these marvelous appendages
regain their altitude
and I continue to soar.