The morning hurries on.

A sound track of wind

machined from the tarmac

bears the weight of speed.

Pace after pace.

Creaking joints

need the morning oils

of strain and stretch

so I can join the traffic

rushing through the awkwardness

of what is to come.

The path shrinks beneath

brambles and crowding nettles.

I hold myself in,

eyes fixed on the next step,

fearing the snag of thorn

and the poison sting.

Only in the tired dust

of a late afternoon trudge

can I see the dark jewels

shining in their ripeness,

still and waiting.


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