The Runner

by Justine C. Tajonera

When she talks about running
there is no her and the running,
there is only the running.
The sound of the leaves
beneath her feet,
the sound of running water,
the sound of the wind
are all one
with the running.

She does not talk of running
as pleasant or kind
or pretty.
She talks about it with
grit and balance and
a sense of being
grounded.

Her running is not in her
soul,
it is her soul,
bare and free,
a total loss and
an absolute enlightenment
that finds no
words,
only bone and muscle
and the beat
of her
heart.

(Feb. 24, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/16961193@N06/1846504959/

Borrowed

By Justine C. Tajonera

I've heard of borrowed time
but that's not all we borrow.

I look at my hands,
my feet,
I feel the movement of
my shoulders,
the perfect swing of
a femur, moving me forward,
a ball joint in my hips,
animated.

Synapses fire away as
I write these words.

Is my soul really mine?
Is the fire in my belly,
the holy pyre of my mind,
the light between my eyes
really
mine?

Nothing is
really
mine.

I hold up a fist
and open it,
let go
of the things
that keep me
closed.

When I shed this body,
will I remember
this gesture
of love?

(Jan. 8, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashleyrosex/3604936492/