Cycling

Cycling

It’s in the movement.

The sound of air rushing by my ears.

Ahead, the soft winding path

Lapping over earth, 

Rising, dipping, turning,

Like waves over the vast. 

Fields of dancing grasses,

Slipping beneath spinning wheels

As if it, the path, were consumed by intense desire.

And then it happens.

A death — Of sorts.

I and the bike cease to exist,

Somehow it is all just perfect movement. 

Flow and action,

Moving over earth spine 

Through fireweed and wild white asters 

Nestled in grasses.

They and I 

Paradoxically 

Indistinguishable

In the living landscape.

The stars know this 

Now — Through me.

And their gift

For my knowing 

Is constant presence and beauty  

Reminding me of who I am.

Attentive

In the giving 

of one to the other. 

Endlessly cycling

Love.

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