The Race

You woke up last night, 4 AM or so
and busied till the sun hopped on in.
I love your busyness, for I am slow,
you’ve crossed the finish line when I begin.
If I’m the turtle hoping for a win
you’re the hare a couple miles ahead—
I’m now distracted by the violin
a tree is playing from the meadow bed.
You double back and lay where I have fled
to nestle with me in the mossy field,
the race long over, your victory unsaid.
Your trophy is not gold, but is revealed
between our speeds, a dawning compromise.
Come back to bed my love, and claim your prize.

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