FLEEING DISASTER

CR GREEN

It is just past noon. I am running as fast

as I can. My little dog moves quickly

ahead of me, thinking this is a game

and I will stop and call him back, but

I am running. I will not stop. He can join

the other dogs.

I am old. I cannot run like the younger

ones passing me. Their strides are long, 

their feet never seem to touch ground, 

their breath is under control. I run like 

the old lady I am. I pray I do not fall.

My steps are short. 

My feet hit the ground in dull, tiny taps, 

leather on stone. I lift my legs as high as 

I can to avoid tripping on the tuffed road

out of my beautiful city. I leave behind my 

garden, the olive, peach, date trees I loved 

for so long.

Some will say we avoided preparing, yet

over my shoulder, hanging close to my side 

is a not-too-heavy bag I wove myself filled 

with almonds, hazelnuts, pine nuts, even fish, 

grapes, and apples I assiduously dried against 

this day.

I will follow the Sarno, eating, then running.

I know the energy it takes to be old and keep 

moving. My arms are bent at the elbows. I hold 

them close to my sides. My hands are clasped 

tight under my aching heart, holding it, lifting it 

away from its settled place.

•••
CR Green is an American writing from Christchurch, New Zealand. Over the years, her short stories and poems have appeared in such diverse publications as The Poetry Distillery, La Fovea, Loyalhanna Review, The Reach of Song, and Close to the Boneyard. She enjoys participating in poetry workshops around the world.