to match me breath for breath
sway for sway.
In my moss-fringed race
shadow dancing gray
to green, I accede to the rhythm,
pound again repeating
a solitary plea:
come run these
miles at water's edge,
lope each spongy trail, come
surge like clouds
painting shadows across this path.
But soggy footprints
shouting "runner" to applauding rain,
pulsing waves,
even these know
no lithe companion, no curving shadow
of hips and breasts
drift across moss or lake
blow in, mingle
brief breeze rushing past in mist
another lip-swollen escape.
How is it such a scenario --
lake to waiting moss,
ten miles of green on green --
is replayed with each breath
in runner's stride
no matter my pace, no matter
what effort I expend
to envision your form beside?
Perhaps like wind
chasing beleaguered clouds, someday
I'll flow your shadow's edge,
finally stop reprieves
promised with each step
and breath. Until then my crazy lungs
will frost the October sky.