the half marathon

when she ran,
it was a slow plod,
shoulders rounded,
hands in front, limp
and open fisted.
her focus was narrow,
a small point
in front of her,
where the next foot
might go.
with her number
pinned to her jersey,
her long dark hair
behind her,
she ran, she ran
through the march wind,
the march cold.
along the coast,
never stopping, never
wavering.
the same pace, the even
breaths.
and this is how
she lived, always
going forward, never
stopping or looking back
to see where you
might be.