I Need to be Run
“My dog needs to be run,” I explain,
“or she’ll get depressed.” But I am the one
roaming aimlessly between
kitchen and office,
sadness growing in me like mold.
I yearn to move against the
earth’s brawny form, be soaked
by the sky’s thoughts.
Feel the bright cold ignite my
nostrils telling the wind’s story.
I stride into winter’s hushed blue,
white, and gray tapestry
begging to be reminded of
my place in the world.
My hunger seeks the subtle shifts of
light and tone, thrives on the dark,
dank fertility of forest duff.
Grassy, wind-swept distances flush out
my secrets until they roll like tumbleweed
and rest against a mended fence,
leaving my cares to ripple away
with every breeze, every fallen aspen leaf,
every salsify seed’s flight.
I am plumped up by lake vapors
as they gather into clouds that surf
the rolling, rocky hills, then cascade down
to where they are feverishly consumed
by lanky, microscopic lifelines to
tree tops and vistas and fruits
that feed hungry wanderers.
My cells vibrate and realign.
Yes, I am the one
to be run
Randi de Santa Anna