I reserve myself
and the fragrances within intensify, dream to potency, ready to be tapped like nectar.
I pour out
and my heart learns its opening once again, as it was many lifetimes ago.
I don’t stay sure
for sure is in motion, in the wheels spinning beneath me as I ride on my bicycle, clear day, summer beach, tempestuous storm.
There are two songs singing their wares, their ways all around and inside of me.
One old, it’s source unkind, pointing, pointing, pointing always at me.
The other, a luscious garden, so new I forget, I forget in some waking days that it can be there.
The rasping song, so old and known, plays and plays, its needle scratching the phonograph’s ear.
The other remains. It has become, like a blossom and will not fade.
Their musics swell and flow.
I am riding my bicycle.
Joy streams like a blue ribbon. Or two, or three. Red, green, blue.
My colors blend. I take the low road by the river, feeling happily endless,
before and behind, balanced in the middle.