Sunday Jog

Foot meets the first crisp leaf,
a muffled crinkle.
And then another
and another,
quickening to a pace
until the crunch of brittle leaves
sets the tempo.

Your eyes are open,
but you don’t remember seeing.
Ears are perked,
yet recollected sounds seem gargled.
Only remembering your fingers
swimming in the wind
as your arms sway in tango
with your hips.

You’re a trout wading down a stream
in fluid strides,
letting the lush of the leaves mix
with the auburn bark sea
that in turn gives up tangibility
to melt into the golden grass
all blurred into the beat
of your steady pant
but unaware you were breathing at all.

Until it’s over.
You close your eyes.
Exhale one last time.
Slowly.
Before lifting your lids again.
To watch the world.
Turn back into tactility.

I thought this was very good. I enjoyed the images and the odd combinations of words you used. The only thing I wasn't sure about was the idea of addressing the reader directly - it made the poem feel kind of aimless. As in, you do this - and then what? Hope that makes sense. But still, I liked it.

Phew! Language so vivid, I felt as though I was jogging.