BACK ON TRACK

After a bitter cold season
sitting on a park bench
watching the Boston marathon
yet knowing my running days
are darkly enfolding over
and seeing the college students
speaking Spanish and French
vanish on the finishing line
so many  veteran memories
like the plover scanned
on the Charles river
or the last flowers or first fruits
define my wind of words
in hours to live well
as time passes me over
under the university bridge
fulfilled without swagger
as the young invade my space
rooting for colleagues in Boston
Cape Cod or Cambridge friends
in their miles of the great race
who gave me
their running numbers
on their sweat shirt
so I could watch their run
on the telephone or fax
on the course of patriot's
or tax day
a poet walks by gardens
unhinging clinging vines
in the glorious sunshine
still with a sense of wonder
without a sense of holiday
reading Emily Dickinson
yet knowing her pardon
reaches our pavilion.