We who speak
of aging as a curse
sense the days we eke
out could get worse.
By habit we hallow
victories of the young,
whose run becomes hollow
and soon enough unsung
as our bursts of sprint
merge into marathon.
Bit by bit we reinvent
the measure of having won.
Speed yields to distance.
The brio of dash
topples before persistence.
Steadiness trumps flash.
And as we turn to lope,
aiming to come in last,
this remains our hope:
cross not sooner but fast.
The first modern Olympics had a competition, of sorts, in poetry. The image has been reposted from More like a Log and the original text can be found in Pastis at Bandol and other Poems.