Passing The Baton

I'm coming in hot, 

my leg of the race run— 

not perfectly, but wholly.

Your face cast toward what's ahead, 

your hand thrown back in trust, 

mine reaching, leaning, matching your stride— 

murmuration of motion, fluid, well-oiled.

1-2-3—pow— the baton plants in your palm.

For a split second it’s a sacred bridge between us: 

ancient wisdom and remedies, 

ancestral practices and promises, 

the baton of our history and hope.

1-2-3—pow— it's yours. I let go.

You accelerate into what's next. 

I fold at the waist, hands on knees, spent.

Don't look back. 

I look on.

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