The black asphalt leaks steam
as the sun rises. A short run
prolongs my morning caffeine
Long enough for me to travel a mile
of rough natural terrain.
A man, far larger than me, in a gray hoodie
is suddenly labeled a thief, or rapist, or murder…
He smiles and runs by. Perhaps he thought
I was young or pretty. Within time I will learn not to worry.
The air is a transparent mystery that fuels my breathe.
The sun rises over Mr. Patterson and his grocery store
he waves without any doubt that he is a perfect gentlemen
an old man of a different tradition.
He thinks the Sun is a miracle though in reality
it is a giant hostile ball of fire which hasn’t moved
in a million years. Yet it rises every day. Now that’s a miracle –
something appearing even though it never does.
Mr. Patterson often confuses beautiful things as miraculous.
As if nothing natural can be beautiful. He says the same about me
and has persisted in that illusion since I was a young girl.
Which despite its good intentions always made me feel
as though I was a disappointment. Needless to say this is why I run,
even though I should be home drinking coffee.
St. Mary’s church signals halfway – her shadow is a sundial –
I am running late. Though the graveyard is in shadows, as it should be,
the sidewalk is bathed in light. I turn right before Ash street
and head back. Patterson’s is open for business even though nobody
comes until after 8. My joints ache. I persistently tell myself
that the pain resides in my mind and push on.
The trees on either side of School street bend over the road
sheltering it from the sun. Light barely breaks through
allowing a runner some mercy. But I havn’t come for that
I have come to atone. So I turn up Old Hickory road
whose houses have displaced the hanging trees
and whose stone walls make the road almost cave-like
and foreign. Both roads intersect the road where I live
but Old Hickory Hill only breaks the flat earth
at this one point.
The ascent is the toughest part of the trip
and always appears as a giant gray wave
approaching from the horizon.
It is of the heritage of mythology
its titanic ancestor imprisoned Sisyphus
increasing the weight he must bear until, at its zenith,
it became impossible to move forward. Only back.
But I am not a Sisyphus, the burden is not on my back
I am a descendant of a different class
the fire wielders, born in caves, and emerged to conquer the earth.
The hill comes and goes. Its passing signifies a quiet victory.
No more a miracle than the sun. Just feet and steaming black tar.
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Veritas Ex Logos 