I’ve been woefully blind to the role of your sole
as the lowest component of human anatomy,
seldom supported by more than a glance
from the loftier regions of purposeful vision,
I’m telling you now that your sisters, two hands
are in earnest applauding your dauntless progression.
A step at a time with the body attached,
you’re the first into friendly or hostile surrounds.
Well, if I had a voice I’d be prone to rebel
at the top of my lungs to a load disproportioned
in size to its tread. If my eyebrows could arch,
then the floor might reflect an imperious mug.
But I’m fully conditioned to carry the burden
while others above me are doing their part
in maneuvering life, and my sole is content
with assurance that inches can never compete.