I’m running the lakeside path again,
past the last shards of March
melting along the shore. This body
built on bone strides silently,
as light as the breath on my lips.
An hour in, quads and calves propel
themselves, knees keep leading me forward
and time becomes a seamless stream.
Doesn’t matter that I will never be
much of an athlete, that I will
never run fast or win a race.
This body is a quiet current
of muscle and pulsing blood.
I am altogether alive in glistening skin.
Copyright 2003 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in 2005 by the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets
The rear wheel
is garrulous, grinding
against the stainless steel roller:
the bike’s inside for the winter,
back tire suspended
in a stationary trainer.
As the spinning
spokes begin to blur,
the taciturn rider
into the rhythm
of legs and breath and pulse.
His padded black shorts
keep time with the steady
pistoning of quads and calves,
his jersey darkens
with the skin’s
wet text, the body’s
heated speech so persuasive
he returns again and again.
It’s the thrill of being the engine
that drives the machine,
it’s the will to last long
like the grinding
steel-gray winter seems.
Rising from the saddle
to stand and hammer the pedals
full force, the rider dreams
an approach to Sestrière’s
for the first crocus to crescent
the Spring-soaked soil.
Copyright 2005 by Brian Dean Powers