Catalina Videla

The wind rises. More rain
washes out the road
I run on.
 
Trees weep wet, sunset yellow
leaves like falling stars.
 
As I push uphill, a slow course
of water meets me, runs over
my feet, and returns home where
a greater brimming body awaits.
 
Nothing is ever lost.
 
I am reaching
the final crest of the hill.
I am made of nothing
but longing.
  
The road dips gently before
rising once more with the wind.
 
Nothing is ever gained.