Diigo Links

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Written while sitting very still.

Everything in me runs:
the fawn looking back,
to both hunter's eyes on the front of his face,
the river above then below the ground,
and wind through rushes,
time through running odds
in elegant living play with flight.

Eventually the hunter fells.
Or the fawn will escape.
Seeds will blow on running wind.
And the river tills its single furrow
flooding wild ruin twice per year.

So, some things do happen.
Some parts do stop.
But always there are strides
of light-like fire in all directions,
licking wind, muscle waves, lolling tongue, padding feet,
sponging lungs,
none symbols, none metaphors,
all directly painful and real and now.

Over all these distractions, over cold cease and desist,
above the ground between strides,
I run.

1 comment:

laamie said...

love this one. i can feel it.