January 28, 2013

Tonight I kept thinking of this poem even though I can't remember the last time I went running.

                                                   I gave God until February.
                                       He told me it might take a little longer.
                                  I didn’t ask why—only told him I couldn’t wait.
A girl told me once that when she runs her skin is silk.
A girl told me once that running makes her fly. 
A girl told me once that running is like praying—it’s survival.

 Some days I think I can’t survive without numb cold ice.
 Some days I think I’ll buckle like a downhill train.
Some days I think I’m running in the nighttime thunder.
      Can’t see me cry. 

Shudder in a flurry like a burnt-out leaf.
But can’t run faster than he does.
Barefoot on the grass my feet get cold.
      I think it’s October.
The best run ever April.
I remember stiff, stiff creaking and a little sway leftward.

I want to lace up my shoes and run like I’m April.
Run like I’m silk.
Run like I fly.
Run like I pray.
Run like I’m praying in my flying silk skin.
Laced up sneakers on the thunder-trodden pavement.
Can’t see me cry.  I don’t cry.
I run.



  1. I remember when you wrote that. You must have e-mailed it to me. It brought back memories.