It is difficult to put into words.

Images created are often

chimeras,

desert wishes on a long,

overheated trek.

Should I take the spoiled

French bulldog?

Wearing the sweatshirt

like a fighter

warming up,

he is not where my

gravity sits.

The handful of moss

without the eyes

would have been better,

for me, anyway,

or perhaps not.

Then there is the keyhole

window onto the countryside.

The tree, the tall, uncut grasses,

the falling down

of the stone structure.

This last is most

like me.

I kid myself that though

my running days are over,

I can still hike.

I can climb the Blue Ridge Mountains,

or crawl the Appalachian Trail.

And I will do this,

through the pain of

locking joints,

the loss of synovial fluid

in my knee,

and the agony

of losing forward.

Maybe, one day,

on some grassy, steep knoll,

instead of walking down

after climbing up, and feeling

every grind of

bone on bone,

I’ll simply tuck inside myself,

and roll on down

the hill.