Running Story

Rain is on our lips,

down the path we run.

 

Through puddles,

Not around.

 

Mud and moss.

Wind whipped hair.

Years of words shared between breaths of air.

 

Creek waters rolling by.

Tears and questions woven into the miles.

 

Over roots, up hills.

Between the trees we run.

 

Thoughts uttered within the flow of movement.

Conversations not possible in stillness.

By Ali Grimshaw

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