Roots are steps in soil. Steps to rise
upon. Steps attended by dark life, earth being
what roots must dig into. To bury these seeds
knowing they will rise again. To bury hands
in rich dirt knowing things will grow well here.
To bury one’s face in a bouquet of lilac without
allowing one blossom to touch your skin.
The aroma, perfume surrounds, saturates
as petrichor attends those who dig.
Open your eyes to this constellation
of small purple flowers that fade
forward, smell the life you stand upon,
follow away into a blue white stain,
world a blur of light, shadow, perfume,
flower, leaf. Climb these stairs with me.
Bike Night
Twin beat of tire spokes braid night air
into set of rapids a canoe would fall upon.
Creases of energy propel me deliriously
forward, folds of force comfortable as pillows,
wells of gravity like muscles from beneath.
My legs pound the circle of bicycle pedals
through night soft as sweater, dark, brilliant,
a night when you feel buoyant, lucky
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