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  • Scott F. Parker


How lucky

to be a runner—

or anything at all


When the snow melts

and underneath it

are footprints


A run

like a blossom

on the branch of an old tree


Just running

through the hurt of life

like a falling leaf


Cloud of breath

in the air—

cold body on the move


At the end

of the long trail to fulfillment—

another run

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