by Alex Shafer
At 9,
I was the fastest boy in school.
At 10,
another boy was faster.
Many boys since
have been faster, smarter, better.
The fleet of foot has grown old.
The man at the finish line,
his insipid grin beaming,
looks like Death to me now,
waiting with open arms,
and a stopwatch
to measure my futility.
Perhaps I should lose,
arrive a little late.
Maybe I will not be like the wind,
but let the wind be like itself.
And I, sensing soft passive pleasure
of a gentle breeze in my face,
will be like what I am.
I am older now,
I grow roses in my yard.
I give them what they need,
content to know that they supply
the Beauty of my garden.
© 2025 Alex Shafer All rights reserved.
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Amazing work. Alex is a lovely poet.