Riding a Bicycle
First, there is a brief alignment the body—
the way the levers fit in my fingers,
my 41 years balanced between hips and hands,
between saddle and pedals.
It is the first ride—the freedom ride—
after months of ice-caked streets
and bike paths nearly erased by winter.
Early morning shines across the metal,
gleams out in every direction and I am ready.
I am ready for the muscles to contract then react,
the heel drop and sole stretch
as the legs crank forward
around the block and back again.
My chest stretched parallel with the frame,
I listen for the wind whizzing through spokes,
for surely I have turned back time
with the turn of the wheel, and sometimes
forgetting is the best way to remember.
No one to fist bump or hi five here,
just heel, toe, and go, go, go!
(I've been tweaking this poem for a while and I'm having trouble making it work. Oh well. Time to let it go.)