I feel the melancholy in the
youth of my legs. The missed
chances to run while
entertaining too much rest; my
past indifferences plague me.
I remember when I challenged
the wind, claiming no defeat or
tasting the vanquish of second place.
I open to the fondness of fleeting
victories, savoring the memories
that are only mine.
Now I feel the wind. I welcome
the way it sweeps over my face,
teasing me, as I consider my past.
Roger Singer 