Runner

This poem celebrates movement as meaning, and the body as not just a vessel, but an altar of effort and devotion. It’s an ode to being human - aware, effortful, blessed, a little ridiculous.

runner boils the lungs and heart
in her own blood
making a funny pot of lyw
to burst her lid
and hit the sun
in his curious head
with the whistle-blowing steam
of her hot, carbon efforts
claiming her place
as part of everything
under the sighing breath
of the vaulting sky;
the pleasure of being small

running in circles
is called endurance training here
training a clarity of mind
that makes children, pets and wild squirrels
stop and wonder
as she blows by

runner should stir with fire
this inedible pot of stew
under and over the privilege
of running in a beautiful park
where heaven and earth attend her
butterflies race with her
in suspicious reconnaissance, dragonflies hover
and a court of trees
dappling the sunshine
with the rustle of their leaves
raise their arms
as happy cheerleaders
to her puff and pump
on the red earthen track

runner should run the freedom
of being able to stand on two legs
run, not walk, what limit of strength and height
she can fly under her weight and gravity
to feel distance
disappearing
rapidly behind her
for as long as she is so blessed

for her, always
a pretty violent form of meditation
complimenting her kind of humanness

running in circles
always to stay
as well as go
far away

© lyw