Those morning runs `cross fields of green,
Where the hills rolled high and low,
When the sun’s slant glazed with honeyed light,
and the dew was all aglow,
We’ leap the gilded gullies,
And laugh when splash we did,
Watch flaring birds in cursive flight,
‘fore answering a challenger’s bid.
Not just a surge or press of pace,
Gauntlets of heart and lung,
But the questions that once did fabulists ask,
Whether in rhyming tone or sung.
The ones that spoke of purpose,
Asking why, and when, and how,
Queries which had no finite truth,
But in whose lee there lied the Tao.
So with wind a close companion,
We’d summon with full resolve,
That supplicant’s tool called effort,
As these riddles we sought to solve.
And afoot we’d take on such mysteries,
Even coming to affable accord,
As how to measure a life well-lived,
Without reduction to prosaic reward.
There was enough in just the doing,
The prize in the strides we took,
Adding in sum beyond the measure,
That of candle, bell and book.
Yet in the lessening of our pulsing gain,
As hearts and lungs retreated,
The hollow chamber of the now stilled air,
Made our wisdom feel depleted.
Still, we never diminished the searching,
Or our allegiance to the cause,
As we sought the fullest expression,
Of our sacred native laws.
Ones we needn’t be reminded of,
To hold in close compliance,
Ones all men could live well through,
If accepted with full alliance.
But such are not the world’s ways yet,
Perhaps never were meant to be,
Thus we witness the continuing conflagration,
God’s blind spot doesn’t allow Him to see.
Such musing are ones to share, I think,
If only to indulge the few,
Congregants who in early morning runs,
Seek an alternative to Sunday’s pew.