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. 

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