Changing Season

I met the moon early this morning.

Me, alone on a bike.

She, nestled in the white branches of trees.

Both of us, silent.

Like the way I always felt closest to you

when there were no words

between us,

trampling our knowing

down into cages

no one could live in

for long.


Before me, the trail wends its way

along the creek for a while,

past the tended field

where squash blossoms

erupt in blooms of bright yellow,

then bends

under the canopy of trees,

where it is littered with leaves

that crunch under my bike tire,

a sign of things to come,


A lesson in letting go ā€“

of dogs

of daughters

of lovers

of women I used to be.


From here, I cannot see

the full round face

of the morning moon,

pale as she is

against a bluing sky.

I cannot see

around the next bend,

past the underbrush

alive with chattering birdsong.


But, on I ride

balanced atop this bike,

arms outstretched

in gratitude

for mornings just like this

and the song of the creek,


of what lies ahead.


~DRH for The Poplar Grove Muse

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