franklin hill turn around
15 degrees/ feels like 8
Another great winter run! Beautiful cold air. Not crisp though–how cold does it have to be to have crisp, cold freezing-the-snot-in-your-nose air? The paths were slick and soft. Maybe next time I should wear my yak trax? Saw the Daily Walker early on. Who else? I can’t remember. A few walkers, several fat tires, a couple runners? Mostly it seemed silent except for the crunching snow, the construction noise, and the low steady buzz of the far off traffic. Heard some voices down below in the gorge–what were they doing? Stumbled over a few snowy ice chunks but didn’t fall or hurt myself. Spotted the dark trail of open water surrounded by the white river. Ran under a heavy gray sky ready to unzip from the weight of impending snow. Right after I finished, the light snow showers started. During the run, my left knee was a little sore and after, my left hip. Probably my IT band reminding me that she’s here and needs to be stretched more.
Always Having Fun with Medical Terms: I T Band Again
- Impossible Tangrams
- Interested Termites
- Indistinguishable Twins
- Indifferent Theses
- Infamous Tattletales
- Imprecise Tailors
- Incanting Taylors
- Impeded Traffic
- Impeachable Tyrants
- Icicle Tinsel
- Invigorated Triathletes
- Insatiable Tricksters
- Ill-fitting T-shirts
Wow. Is IT the best acronym ever? Maybe.
excerpts from October
Is it winter again, is it cold again,
didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,
didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted
didn’t the night end,
didn’t the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters
wasn’t my body
rescued, wasn’t it safe
didn’t the scar form, invisible
above the injury
terror and cold,
didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden
harrowed and planted—
I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,
didn’t vines climb the south wall
I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground
I no longer care
what sound it makes
when was I silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound
what it sounds like can’t change what it is—
didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth
safe when it was planted
didn’t we plant the seeds,
weren’t we necessary to the earth,
the vines, were they harvested?
The brightness of the day becomes
the brightness of the night;
the fire becomes the mirror.
My friend the earth is bitter; I think
sunlight has failed her.
Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.
Between herself and the sun,
something has ended.
She wants, now, to be left alone;
I think we must give up
turning to her for affirmation.
Above the fields,
above the roofs of the village houses,
the brilliance that made all life possible
becomes the cold stars.
Lie still and watch:
they give nothing but ask nothing.
From within the earth’s
bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness
my friend the moon rises:
she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?