By Elaine R. Winkler
After Jane Hirshfield
A foot is not one big toe and four smaller.
Nor is it a sole and instep,
not ligaments and bones,
not tendons, or skin and blood vessels.
My foot does not write novels,
or paint oils on canvas,
it is not the pavement where it has walked,
not in its footprint,
not in painted toenails.
Nor is my foot my garden where I cool it,
not the shoe it wears,
nor the footbath wherein it’s washed,
not the powder that soothes.
The foot of the bed is not it.
Foothills are not it.
The footstool whereupon it rests is not it.
My foot has a single necessary job,
in my estimation.
To put itself forward, then follow the other,
to keep moving me through my life.