I often feel deeply for transplanted individuals, especially if they can’t ever or often go “home” for a visit. Even though I haven’t left the country, I still feel like a transplant from Michigan stuck in Virginia. I am ever thankful each time I get to go home. So, here I am, finally, “home” for a week long visit and even though it is about 15 degrees colder here with a lot more snow, I still manage to thoroughly enjoy myself and would consider the visit less meaningful if I didn’t get outdoors to run on the roads I love. So, here’s a little poem I wrote after I came back from running today, and here’s a great big cheers to the New Year and transplants everywhere who just wanna go home. And even bigger cheers to those people who are as crazy as I am and go running when it’s eleven degrees 🙂
Only a true runner knows how it feels
to breathe in deeply when it’s eleven degrees,
and witness the whiteness, swirl of snow at your heels,
the cracks in the puddle post freeze.
Toes are like blocks for a moment or more,
but the rhythm of the run is addictive.
Nose trickles, cheeks sting, hamstrings are sore;
the gust of chill wind quite vindictive.
But the image of an iced lake is unique;
the glistening icicles on roofs pointing south,
contrast deep brown branches, frozen creek,
a pillow of white breath from your mouth.
Only a true runner who has undertaken the course
into winter air, find internal reason
to pursue this pleasure, witness, can discourse
the thrill of the run in every season.