Tim Peeler, Webbing

Tim Peeler

When he runs the single track trails
Around the fields, through the woods
Over fallen trees, busted limbs,
Milky quartz slung here, there,
He moves in short crippled strides
Like a spider accidentally stepped on
By the red-faced farmer, clod hopping
In wee darkness to his dairy.
He knows that relevance is illusive
As the tiresome world grows lonelier
And the first yellow gray beauty
Of the gloaming closer to finality,
And the uphill that always seemed
To be about arms swinging back
To grab power from the cold air
Is really nothing but the stomach
Wall shaping itself into a reason
That still makes sense.

6 thoughts on “Tim Peeler, Webbing

  1. “shaping . . . into a reason that still makes sense” what we all have to do. Tim is well-represented on my list of favorite poems ever; this one adds one more, somewhere up near the top.

    • I used to be a fairly competitive runner, but this poem is about writing poetry at a certain age, though we’re not supposed to like poems about writing poetry, so I’m not supposed to admit that, but there. Thanks to those of you that have read it.

  2. I think it might be about doing anything we once considered significant at a certain age, that age where disillusionment often seems to outweigh belief.

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