fire-banning drought
sucking spring rains from wildlife
broken by night’s clouds
seasons
Arapahoe Road
it is like any other day.
it is unlike any other day.
i strip in thirty seconds
and replace appropriate attire
with oh-so-attractive cycling gear
i have it all–
the tight shorts, leggings,
arm-hugging shirt,
fingers-enclosed gloves
to fight a bitter headwind,
helmet with its beautiful
pop-top blaring light,
oversized headphones
that won’t fall out of my ears,
my music. set.
i pedal hard.
the wind scathes me,
but the sun settles amongst
perfectly puffy clouds,
a blue sky spring
and a creek
with mama mallard, daddy duck,
so idyllic i want to
trap their innocence in a lens,
all before i reach Arapahoe Road.
i can’t trap it,
but i take my headwind in stride,
arrive home to three
bright-shirted girls
who make music of their own
he texts me later,
driving home from the ice,
stuck in traffic
on Arapahoe Road.
Lexus Mustang BMW Tahoe,
i illicitly reply,
i fit right in.
(bumper-tied-on 98 Hyundai)
he sends back a laugh
and i smile,
the picture perfect ride
as i crossed this very street
present in the forefront of my mind
on this day like any other,
this day unlike any other.
The Colors of My Morning
spotlighted white half circle
against a blanket of navy blue,
shadowy mountains sheathed in pink,
golden streams pouring over bridge,
cotton candy clouds of violet,
calming gray threads stitched into
budding green quilt-work pastures,
deep-set pools of brown nestled
in five heads of beige curiosity.
the moon rests, the sun rises
to the colors of my morning
Electrified Files
outspoken as always
he asks why i smile
she loves watching us work,
his classmate chimes in
(all teachers live for torture)
he has caught me in a moment
(one of many on this first day back)
where my available memory sits
on the forefront of my monitor
(the smile will never be far
from lips that can’t hide happiness)
(i will never tell him
i will tell almost no one)
the images i tuck in electrified files
at the base of my hard drive
ready to upload
a screensaver’s pleasure
at the smiling touch of a keyboard
I Am Always Amazed
i could hear the howling
i had my gym bag packed
i longed for climate control
(i longed for you more)
throw passion to the wind
they always say that
because they’re not driving
into a twenty-mph-headwind
or feeling it edge along
our backs, our tires
as we ride uphill
faster than the opposite side
pushes down
it’s always those curves along the dam
trying to tell us we can’t make it–
they don’t know us very well, do they?
how i ache to reach the end
where i will have full view of the lake,
where you will take me down
the curvacious path
and rebuild the quads
that have longed for you all winter
i am always amazed
i am always amazed
by how connected i feel
(alone on you)
to the world around me,
how i see the water
and in it my grandmother’s love
for looking at the water,
(insert tears here)
how the right song always comes on
(“Sky Blue and Black” this morning)
how all my stress
slips into the howling wind
as i race for a better time,
how i love,
love,
love you
Stationary Cycle
spring is near
i can’t see crocuses
but the pink sky
of fading dawn
as i step out of the gym
total darkness
no longer my closest friend
on my zippity commute
soon it will be full sun
i’ll strap on my helmet
and pedal past the church
over the hills
that any day of the week
can beat this stationary cycle
i will be a part of the sunrise
that winter has kept from me
Moonset
only at dawn
stepping out of the gym
could i see this golden moonset
it hangs above the skyline
a bright medallion kissing the morn
and smiles at the pink-streaked clouds
that rise opposite
welcoming the wintry day
where snow sits stacked
along the edges of the road
covering the cattle-longing pastures
The Runway of His Dreams
we have left the pretty pink bar,
beauty slipping from sky in silent flakes.
the roads are not icy yet,
but moist in anticipation:
the wipers push away drops
(we have no possibility of sliding)
i watch the silent storm
move into my city,
remembering him in eighth grade,
so tiny and cute,
turning around in social studies
and making fun of the teacher
he is not here,
but rides along the slick streets
inside my mind as i pull back
the cautious, modest man he has become,
a beauty in the Beauty Bar
with his grace and patience,
more perfect than any dress
he could ever create
for the runway of his dreams.
Gather Together
like animals preparing for winter,
we watch the daytime sky.
sun shines through early on
and we gather together stories,
hoarding them like acorns
along our hollow trunks,
our words heavy with hope
as clouds commence their cover.
we dart around on daily duties,
trapping warmth in our dens,
keeping track of small changes
in the ever-darkening air
as we keep our eyes on the sky,
our hearts open to impending flakes
that will magically make us happy
we are animals adhering to your laws,
bulking our bodies against
the winds that will blow it in,
forgiving its harshness
for the safe moments
where we will gather together
and watch a silent snowfall
bring in a new beginning.
Nothing Short of Art
we sit in central citified sun
sipping smoothies and lattes,
munching on freshly baked croissants
and chatting with strangers
on a day so warm it can’t be
the third week of January
(a beauty we all share
as we peel off our winter coats)
they skip alongside on an impromptu adventure,
moving along the zero street,
playing pig and picking out dates
on ovular stamps in concrete.
we enter the train store
and examine the pure wonder
of details so tiny, humans
standing knee-deep in plexiglass water,
monkeys climbing up a fallen-apart billboard,
and fast-moving trains. one declares,
it is nothing short of art
later i pedal into the wind
around the dam and up the hill
until i see the circular beauty of the lake,
and its curvacious path
interweaves me with a hundred pairs of legs,
all taking advantage
of this day like no other
before i am home
i am home,
and can almost forget
the tears whose all night sting
kept my eyes bleeding till morning,
the two dark, cold miles of separation,
and the hollowness of our words
that find their way
into the poems he wishes i wouldn’t write.
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