Sister walks because, she says, 

she needs to. Needs to slip the surly

bonds of time, to stride while staying

still, in moving meditation.

Old awards and budding hopes,

sharp regrets and future fears

land like snowflakes, melt away

leaving only present: pure

delight of left and right, and in

and out the breath of life, a blessing.  

A gentle stride, andante really,

allows her heaven-sent communion.  


I’d rather run, young brother says, 

like Longboat from Six Nations. Ran 

away from residential school 

and later ran because he loved to,

so very far and faster than racers 

ran before him, a legend in 

this province, won the marathon

in Boston, won in Madison 

Square Garden. Was a hero in 

the Great War, message bearer like 

that soldier, ancient soldier, one

that ran from Marathon to Athens,

though Tom lived to run again. 


Or like a jogger jogging easy


Or barefoot boy who sprints with joy

so light along a sandy shore. 


Me, my running days are gone, 

long gone, but tempo allegretto

calms me still, on winding way 

through untamed park or better yet

past houses. Houses grand and houses

merely big and tasteless, or simpler

streets, green postage stamps or native

plants in bold and wild abandon, 

or weedy lawns, neglected homes:

I pass them all, companions, who look

at me, and speak to me, in silence. 


While in our backyard Poppa paces

slowly, musing, telling his beads.





Photo by 12019 (Pixabay)