The Last Race
The last runner of the relay is making her sprint
feeling the strangeness of the desire to slow
she carries hope in her hand
the last light
creature from Pandora’s box
Encased in human form.
Can golden apples thrown at her feet
make her slow down, turn away
stop to examine their worldly beauty
consider other beauties around her
expanding her time, ignoring the clock?
The finish line no longer the goal
rather examination of the path
reflection of the race from its start
with all stumbles and missed passes
still time to change the course.
The medal to be won is but a shroud
awarded as the sun dips below the horizon
no looking back into the settled darkness
lines on the track
blow away
the stadium as in Sarajevo, turned into a graveyard.
The last runner slows her step
opens her arms to slow feel the wind slow her
steps onto the wet, uncharted grass
breathing in the scent from a far off garden
she will take her time to find.
©2017 Noreen Braman
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