When I went walking, I followed my feet
On to the end of the end of the street
Following that, I walked on some more,
Finding my feet at a far-distant shore.

Not at all hindered by the ocean’s vast size,
I decided continuing would be most wise.
So I followed my feet, footsteps trailing behind,
Up to my ears in green-and-blue brine.

Though I’d now lost my hold on the floor of the sea,
It presented no real sort of challenge for me.
I swam for a while at rather good pace,
The sky and the sea closing in on my face.

And so this went on, for a week or so more,
‘Til my feet once again touched a far-distant shore.
Pleased at my progress, I then left the sea,
My footsteps emerging quite soon after me.

I walked on, I walked on, I saw cities and towns
I followed my feet, which followed the ground.
I saw marvelous things that I’d try to describe,
But I haven’t the words. Or the space. Or the time.

Over many a country I wandered, you know,
Never quite sure of where next I would go.
But I always kept on, wondering too
Where I would end up when my journey was through.

On the twenty-eighth week (and a few days besides),
I followed my feet to a soft, lapping tide.
My footsteps behind me, I jumped in once more
And swam for a month to the opposite shore.

And when I touched land, why, I kept going on!
Over mountain and valley, through evening and dawn.
Where was I going? I couldn’t have bet,
But wherever it was, well, I wasn’t there yet.

But then as I rounded the crest of a hill,
I saw something familiar and quiet and still.
I ran down to meet it, I followed my feet,
And soon recognized my own house, my own street.

And there in the dirt, and there, in my yard,
Were somebody’s footsteps, weathered and hard.
I stepped in them, wondering whose they could be,
And I stopped, and I noticed they belonged to me.

My feet would not walk; my prize had been won.
I’d gone clear round the earth, and my journey was done.
Happy like that, I stayed there, quite fulfilled:
I’d done enough traveling. I’m standing there still.