30 Days: Poetry by Brooke Wilson

Sometimes I Run

Sometimes I run

not to get in shape

but to get away from all the shapes

in my life.

Sometimes I run

and I race my shadow

but I always let it win

because if I came face to face with my shadow

after all these years of chasing

what would I say to it?

Sometimes I run

until time slows down

stops

goes backward.

And I don’t want to stop running

until time has gone back far enough

to where hugs enveloped you

and cares were lighter than a robin’s egg

and death

was just a rumor

vacationing in a far-off land.

Sometimes I run

to wrap myself in the cool green mist

and soak up as much fresh life as I can,

to store for later.

Sometimes I run

until I feel the blood pound in my head

and my muscles scream

and my lungs burst

and it feels so good

to know for certain

that I am

painfully

wonderfully

beautifully

alive.

It Began with Ivy

It began with the ivy

curling up the side of a church

in a small abandoned parking lot.

It began with the rain

landing softly on the two faces,

cleansing the ivy.

It began with two hands.

Ten interlocked fingers

growing together gently.

It began with the dance,

more beautiful than music,

quieter than the rain.

It began with hope.

Braided fingers twirling in slow circles,

fresh water kissing their faces.

It began with whispers

from an inclination, feeling, need,

conviction.

Eventually, the entwined fingers

and cooled wet faces

danced on from the parking lot.

But the church,

and the ivy,

and the hope

Are there yet.

Brooke Wilson - liningthecloudswithsilver.blogspot.com