Poem: Morning Run

Morning Run

It’s dark.

Today, I am the one who rises;

the sun wakes up to find me

waiting for her to begin the day.

It’s early

and slowly I feel the fog lift;

the dew of my morning mind

collected on my forehead

evaporates into the blanket of stillness

in which I am wrapped.

It’s calm.

But these ripples in the air

are caused by my movement

along the still, dry riverbed

running and bending up the mountain

to somewhere I have yet to know.

It’s loud.

My body chants to the drumbeat

set by the pace of each stride

and in my ears, the rhythm of my blood

mixes with the hurricane outside

in the ritual of praised endurance.

I’m thirsty.

I drink the cold and frigid air

fueling fire in my lungs

evicted as a cloud of vapor

and taste the saltwater rain

dripping from my face into my mouth.

I’m free.

Consistency in rhythmic motion is a dance.

Around and down from side to side

when on occasion my twisted form

slips on the forest path, I glide

retaining balance in graceful chaos.

I’m warm.

Painful passion fuels the embers

warding off fatigue, the predator

who lies in shadows of the mind

watching the waning light of will

which struggles, but will not go out.

I’m complete.

Today, my spent strength buys me vitality;

recovering from accumulated debt, I turn

and offer thanks to the source of wealth and view.

—Derek Miller, 9 March 2015