We Often Run

We often run,
Impulse says
(She who has birthed
many a fleet-footed runner)
Like bright kites held aloft against
Grey-edged skies
Leads taut
Borne high on intermittent winds
that blow from Home.

We often run
Like colors in the palette
squirming against each other
Intermingling black
To taint the edge of dipped brush and
sketch a determined figure
Never noticing the wielding hand
Is still
No matter how
Often we run
Mother's. Father's.