It has been decades since I rode a bicycle,
pushing pedals, working calves and quads,
all senses, the beauty of air, of air!
The day I stopped riding isn’t
on the calendar. How odd, abrupt,
that one can, one day, ride a bike,
and then just: stop. Never again do it.
Or close to never. It has me wondering…
If I’d never stopped. I see myself
biking everywhere, basket behind
and before me, bright with blooms,
baguettes, brie, bottle of beaujolais,
breeze brushing, blushing my cheeks.
Written beside “Basilico” by Sue Ann Gleason
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