The north wind slides down
the hillside
like the last touch of father's hand
when he died,
through a cloud of white
his great hand on a white sheet
where the last of his blood
fled toward his heart
the way summer leaves
rush to the ground.
I am running to stay strong
in the change of my seasons.
After a half an hour
I can no longer bear
the bluster of each half lap
where the wind slaps
away the warm sheet I wear.
I pray to him
give me the grace
to praise the space
in which I can still run home.
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