Those who speak
of aging as a curse
sense the days they eke
out could get worse.
By habit they hallow
victories of the young,
whose run becomes hollow
, soon enough unsung.
As bursts of sprint
merge into marathon
they reinvent
the measure of having won.
Speed yields to distance.
The brio of dash
topples before persistence, which trumps flash.
And as they turn to lope,
aiming to come in last,
this remains their hope:
cross not sooner but fast.
***
In The Skin of Things