The boy hurtles himself into the air,
his limbs outstretched over the hurdles,
which he clears without injury or slowing down,
reaching for that finish line, its siren call
never fading, only growing stronger.
He never turned his gaze towards the others.
It was not close, no toss-up who won.
It was as if he flew the entire distance.
This was a first victory for him,
and as he flashed that fresh, winning smile,
he was glad he flossed after breakfast,
no flecks of cereal between his teeth.
/ / /
I finally finished this poem in response to Wordle 11 at The Sunday Whirl.
I'm only three weeks late. It's not a great poem. Frankly, "It was as if he flew the entire distance" is probably the most cliche line I've ever posted, but my self-imposed challenge of writing a poem to all of Brenda's wordles is intact.