In shadow land, she still rides bicycles
earnestly, concentrating to angle
the front wheel just right to aim and not fall.
She never leans to steer or swoop her turns
like her man did on his cycle, her hair
sweeping the ground and she hugging his back.
Once she threw caution to the wind and sped
down a mountain, hugging its slant, no brakes
except her head when a stone interrupted.
In sunny daze, she walks slowly, leaning
on her unnecessary drugstore cane—
her insurance against touch and bumps.
Fragility keeps her feet on the ground.
Love plants a tricycle in her drawings.
Posted for my prompt at
Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast