There is a balance we seldom notice,
a small anchor higher up the leg,
holding tight with bone and purpose,
a thumb pressed against earthless air.
Front ones grip like silent allies,
steadfast in their quiet choreography,
guardians of pivots unseen and unspoken,
stabilizers in a dance we overlook.
And yet, the rear ones dangle softly,
a lonely crumble of evolutionary residue,
skimming life without ever touching it,
only asking for the gentlest care.
Trim them back, lest they turn wicked,
curl toward pain, or snag on the wild.
Do not forget even these small bystanders,
their lives lie in the tender sweep of your hands.
We are all part anchors, part unnecessary,
all holding on in our own strange ways,
waiting for someone—anyone—
to notice, to tend, to see.