First Step

Everything eventually becomes dust.
Buddhists believe all that matters

is the present moment. Neither past nor
present tense sings from their vocabulary.

Uncertainty lurks outside, a race with no
starter’s pistol, no finisher’s tape.

The undulating road may be shrouded
in mist or slickened by rain.

The sun may boil overhead, stoop to sow
its gold in crowns of distant trees

or disappear altogether. The first step cries,
            I don’t care, or, I care too much,

or, I care enough to take a second step,
and then a third. Soon enough

a thrum of galloping blood
fills me with my own light

and I can sense the stone
that had been weighing me down

was just a seed            waiting,
wanting to give birth.

---

Bill Glose is a combat veteran who now finds peace in his morning runs. The author of five books of poetry and one book of fiction, Glose was named the Daily Press Poet Laureate in 2011 and featured by NPR on The Writer’s Almanac in 2017. Vist his website at billglose.com. Follow him on Twitter, @billglose and Instagram, @readerwriterreviewer.