biking

Baby Number One

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standing next to my bike
(baby number one)
just before sunrise
I adjust the straps on the saddlebag
and ask myself why I
didn’t pack gloves

the door clicks open
swings shut
forcing my heart rate to
race as if I’ve already begun
the uphill ride

my breath spills out
in gray wisps of
below freezing air as
I take a step around the corner
to see what has materialized

there she stands
barefoot in
her polar bear purple pajamas
her fuzzy morning braids
dangling on either side of her
grinning face, her arms out

“I came to say good-bye.”
I reach for my should-be-asleep
daughter, wrapping my warmth
around her shivering skin,
my always-a-morning-person girl,
my baby number one.

Catch Me a Moon

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catch me a moon once meant
fix my broken heart
(at sixteen, when in pieces
my heart’s only remedy were
the silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon now means
give me a moment
(a moment to myself, to bike,
to run, to remedy stress
with silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon was a story
I wrote (and memorized,
reciting its words as I tackled
giant hills on my way to school
under silver splashes of light)

catch me a moon is a poem
I write (holding my mended heart
as I rediscover the well-lit path
that will carry me—carry all of us—
as we reach for silver splashes of light.

Summoning Spring

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pedals taking me there
the horizon beckons
on either side of my tires

from the west, golden,
hidden under a mask of clouds
the glowing coin of night
settles itself onto a bed of
snowcapped mountain peaks,
the city’s glittering lights
quilting the mattress of spring

from the east, silver,
hidden under a mask of clouds
the flashing fish of morning
prances into a pool of
aquamarine divinity,
the black-roofed suburban homes
splashing the tides of spring.

pedals taking me there
the horizons beckon
the divine hands that
summon spring’s sunrise
on both sides of my tires.

Black Bicycle Tires

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At sixteen
(almost seventeen)
I wrote in my journal:
“Busiest street in the city
a solid two days in a row
you crossed it in between
rushes of cars, slow uphill
in gray breath-spilling morning,
heated gasps down the slope in the afternoon.

‘God is sending me miracles!’
you scream out, because
nothing moves as quickly
as black bicycle tires
when it’s almost summer.”

At thirty-one
(almost thirty two),
I write in my journal:
“Silver or magenta,
mountain or road,
black bicycle tires
erase the pain
before and behind me,
a majestic blur of
rubber on pavement,
a remedy for adolescence,
adulthood,
life.

Heaven on Earth

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Dedicated to the Glenwood Canyon Bike Trail

the sky here is always blue
(clouds sneak in each afternoon
but the mountain air chases them off)
and in the morning you just might see
(you just might, if you find the soul of God)
a herd of bighorn sheep
(brown now, September leaves golden)
startled by you
and the dawn that tickles
their grass-eating lips

you can stop your pedaling
or keep going
(keep going)
because the beauty doesn’t end there—
you will breathe it into your lungs,
the light heaviness of
the red rock canyon,
the perfectly laid path that winds
along the river that
has carved out this magnificence
so you
(you, them, everyone)
can taste for these delicious
high altitude moments
Heaven on Earth.