by Marilyn Ringer


It is the season of races where only one can rise and claim the gold
while a world of others must accept no less than heartbreak.

Who will remember the woman, pulled up lame, her years of preparation
spent on one false step, the look on her face as they carried her out of the stadium?

At one point or another we all fall down. The test: to rise, revise, resume.
What matters is not how fast, how strong, or quick, but how we see it through.




Category: Poetry