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Rumbling Through A Race

It was in my youth, I was ten or twelve,
And the time was half-past nine;
The sun had set and the moon had yet
To show her silver shine.

It was really just a child’s game,
Some sort of tag and run;
But we chased through the woods as best we could
And the darkness fueled the fun.

I was picking my way through the undergrowth
That tried to bind my knees,
When, in the dark, I heard the snap
Of footsteps through the trees.

“Ah HA! At last! I’ve got you now!”
I shouted toward the sound;
When came the roar of a wild boar
I began to cover ground!

I was slowed in flight by the blackened night
And, as in a dreaded dream,
The way to go I did not know
And I could not think to scream.

With all my might at the speed of fright
I made each lunging stride;
I strained and groped and simply hoped
To save my youthful hide.

That was long ago, but even now
That memory comes to mind
As life gets packed with problems
And I look about to find

That, like that night, I’m stripped of sight
And rumbling through a race
With improvised decision made
As problems come to face.

Deciding where to plant my feet
Just inches from the sod
And wishing for a surer path,
One lined with guiding rod.

A trail to true stability,
A sense that all is right;
That gives a man a proven plan
And lends a guiding light.

Mid-stride I stop, to my knees I drop,
And the wise will understand,
That in life’s race the quickest pace
Is set by those who plan.

And so I seek direction
From a tried and proven source;
The Master’s voice can guide each choice
As I glide along the course.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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