Where she steps a whir,
Like dust about her feet,
Follows after her
Down the dustless street.
Something struggles there:
The forces that contend
Violently as to where
Her pathway is to end.
Issues, like great hands, grip
And wrestle for her tread;
One would strive to trip,
And one would go ahead.
Conflicting strengths in her
Grapple to guide her feet,
Raising an unclean whir,
Like dust, upon the street.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 27, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.