Poem: Field

By: Allison Grayhurst

forest

It doesn’t matter what field
you run on, or who has your shoes.
All that matters is that you keep moving
over the hardly visited terrain where garden snakes
and mosquitoes thrive. None of them will kill you,
only blister your stride and then
you will be free of the field, free of running.
You can rest on a wide small hill – look out over
the sky and know you made it – barefooted, bug bitten
but accomplished. You said your prayers
of forgiveness, blushed at your own anger then let it go
as you were running through that field – more
ethereal than not, more heartbroken than not.

You ran (yourself a miracle) emptied, hurt, but
persistent. And now, the hill is your home, cupping
you gently in its surrounding breeze.

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