Westward
My feet barely kiss the ground—
just the toe box touching down
long enough to push the planet
spinning faster, eastward bound.
I am the seal balanced
on the beach ball's curve,
rumbling forward, joyful,
riding the earth's own swerve.
Not the hamster in its wheel,
running hard but staying still—
not the office worker trapped
in fluorescent days that kill.
No cog am I, no grinding tooth
in some machine's indifferent maw.
Out here, I move the very earth.
My stride becomes the law.
They say a butterfly's wing
in some distant garden's air
can spiral into hurricane,
can shake the atmosphere.
So too these footfalls, light as breath,
ripple outward, amplify—
each westward stride a flutter
that moves both earth and sky.
And I am both the butterfly
and the one transformed in flight,
I am not who I was at mile one
but something stronger, fierce, and light.
