I am running toward the sun,
the bright, hidden star
at the far end of the universe,
collecting improbable stories
on my way (tales of erratic wonder)
though I cannot know
if I am the observer or the observed.
Each footstrike lifts me higher
until the earth becomes
a seed, secret and recluse,
a forgotten child far on the
horizon of a misplaced eternity.
Michael James Fitzgerald
