in taking small steps

one can lose his stride

The hiker crossing scree

carefully picks his way

in precarious rocks

on purpose


Out there

on the level plain

where time has worn

cruel boulders into sand

and wind blows pain

into boulevards

one flies


Only then

will the muscles

of these aching legs

relieve our weary eyes

Then we will think

in terms of miles

not steps 


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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6 Responses to Stride

  1. SalvaVenia says:

    As so many other times simply a matter of perception …


  2. the race goes to the swift


  3. Each step creates the walk. Adored, Peter :)


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