Racer

The finish line that never ends

The racer was so focused.
Her legs, shoulders, lungs
all grinding in sync
towards the finish line.
When she passed it
another came into view.
When she passed that one
another sprouted
from the horizon,
then another
and another.
“I must run faster,”
she muttered,
lengthening her stride, pushing her pace,
eyes ever fixed
on the finish line.
Over the horizon,
a westerly wind blew
the racer’s cheeks swayed.
The fields came into view.
Yellow waves
rolled over the countryside.
Sunflowers.
But then she regained her focus.
“To the finish line,” she thought.
Narrowing her gaze
towards the fluttering banner.
“It’s okay,”
whispered a voice.
The racer shook her head.
Another gust of westerly wind blew.
Her cheeks swayed again.
Her long strides
slowed
to small steps.
Then
the racer stopped.
She climbed atop
a giant boulder
peered out
at the endless fields
and smiled.
“What greater victory is there?”

A poem by Pemba Umoja