I wrote this during an exercise on Sunday’s poetry salon at Beyond Baroque, led by Emily Clark.
Religious concepts say love must be pure.
Though secular, you find the concept wise:
to find a love and make that love endure,
a marathon, with life-long love the prize.
And so a few false starts do not dissuade,
life caught coughing in fits, your lungs healthy.
But there’s smoke in the road, and where the path?
Is there a path?
You sprint madly, parched,
handed batons that you cannot drink.
You crumple them and toss them on the green grass.
Like emeralds beneath the grey, it soothes you.
And to your right rise proud cliffs,
and to your left, a river.
And you follow it,
as do the other sturdy
runners by your side.
-D. M. Collins