A long distance runner once, I loved
the feeling that I was on my way
somewhere, passionate and alone across
landscape and time. Leaving it all behind and pressing
forward into an unknown hope. The beauty of it
was that I was not, in fact, alone at all.
Together we descended into wind and breath.

It wasn't a fool's freedom from pain -
it was fueling movement with ache,
as if arms and legs could paint upon the air, upon
the ground and fields we passed - impressing
upon the world the rhythm
of a beating heart.

Always a circle or
out and back.
We return to the place we left, softly
to gather past's orphaned pieces once again:
a mother lifts her child after rest
love's well springs, out of depths
incomprehensible, afresh.