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.

-01/06