The Runner
Run! she said and ran through streets
steaming with rain while hot winds from Saskatchewan
whipped her hair,
Fondled her face
and tore the soles of her shoes from the pavement.
Run, she said when she was thirty-five or forty,
Too young really to feel the ligaments grow sore and stiff
A precursor of retirement
And arthritis which lamed her joints
Bent her ankles and toes
Her fingers not able to sign the forms for the race
As her seventieth birthday approached
Much loved but broken for the last sprint
Of her life as her friends gently stooped
And lifted her to the finish line.
This is for all those friends and family who are sore, worn out, tired and discouraged. I get that way, too, sometimes, and only spit and baling wire keeps me going.
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