My hands ache as I tie their shoes
they lean upon my neck.
I cannot throw them off
nor carry them.
I am older now
but Sunday
is cross country wings
and measure nothing.
I listen to them laugh and breathe.
I hear my heart and theirs.
I am older now
their faces shiver
when I run
and suggest a nap
but my heart
wants to metronome a pace
that spaces out my life.
It surges up the hills
currents me like a river to the sea.
Though I am older now
I must have always run.
On Sunday afternoons
when grass and god are everywhere
I am a prayer between them
because I run
and I am young again.
