Streets are for running back to ourselves
after our busyness. Autumn
is overripe. Skies transform. Leaves
molder. This passing will remain.
Mountains are for running in the sky
but no one leaves the trailhead
completely. It’s certain I’ll die
but while running I’ll never be dead.
Rain is a shimmering pall
for sensing what we are until
we stop counting seconds as they fall,
until we learn to flow uphill.