Sør Ås Bîk Clüb

she wears a jersey
that shames us all
What will you do
it asks,
on your 70th birthday?

this on mile sixty-two
a record high day
where we pop out fully cooked
from sauna port-o-lets,
strap on our stinky helmets,
and try to beat the sun home

jerseys mock me:
sør ås bîk clüb
biker chicks
(with matching nest pics)
Ride the Rockies
and every other place
i don’t quite fit

men in drag
weave themselves up and down,
stopping to fix flats
and pose for pictures,
their exuberant rainbow
of wigs, skorts, and fishnets
bringing welcome laughter

the day begins with a sea
of hot air balloons
decorating the mountain-backed sky
and ends with free lunch,
an all-girl band,
and women who know
just where the road can take us.

Birthday Party Recipe

just take three kids,
toss in ten more,
stir up some screams,
splash in a bit of sunlight,
add ice-cold water,
a dose of shade,
and bake for three hours.

pull your party
out of the oven
and serve warmth.

Door to Shore

she’s shoeless behind me
and he carries a load
worth a thousand pounds in gold
we coast down to the beach
(four miles from door to shore)
pedal harder home in summer rain
that tickles our backs
as thunder threatens our ears

this is the Vittetoe Express
missing a link along the line
broken into bright patches of light
as three girls, two chairs, two floaties,
one giant Camelbak,
and the love of my life
carry us home

Breeze of Love

single women in spaghetti straps
men in khakis, collars and ties
linger in line for $3 microbrews
as we soak up the sounds of summer

girls giggle and groove at the front
forgetting for once they’re so small
beer bubbles in belly, beckons a smile
carrying kids through crowds into crescents

the ride home through Victorian
Colonial Craftsman Contemporary
bike lanes on every side street
brings a breeze of love through Lexington
lovely to love, to live, to meet.

Quilt

with chunks of chicken
sticker books and melting chocolate
crinkly bags of beef jerky
mini pencils strewn like petals
crumbs in every crack
we make our way along the border

its golden sphere beckons us to stop.
we can’t go inside but see the perfect playground,
the grass soft as our new carpet,
the two-story fountain filled with children
who hear it erupt and rush
like carnivorous hawks toward fresh prey,
and i forget
(for all of ten minutes)
that i am not one of them,
but the parent
now soaked from head to toe,
dress sticking to my legs
as my three little girls
weave me in and out of spurts
in our quilt of childhood joy,
sewing up the perfect end
to a dogged day’s drive.

Bullfrogs

they have never seen
or collected one by one
bullfrogs hopping into the water
quicker than a wind shift

we pace like predators
around the pond
tiny whispered voices containing
excitement over bulging eyes

there are no mountains here
only hills so dense with trees
you’d never see the rocky bottoms
when we’re so used to rocky tops

instead horses swing reluctant tails
in air as thick and slow as syrup
and we watch a turtle slither on a log
and frog after frog hop into our hearts.

My Sunset

Kentucky heat on a
new side of the state
(one that doesn’t give in
to early sunsets)
guides us up and down
hills on a windless evening

i grin,
back on the bike
after a week,
two whirlwind drives
six states over from
the mountains
as lush vines
thick-as-elephant tree trunks
and curvacious
nonchalant
southern hills carry us home

we stop
just shy of their house,
a perfect park
(playground and all)
distant trees
gripping the edges
of a burning red circle
that strikes
my sixteen-year-old heart
still beating lovingly
all these years later
that same sun
hidden by wisps of clouds
a bright mark of beauty
on the tired world
over the spires and forests
of Oxford
now reappears,
and i have no stairs to sit on,
no lonely walk home,
no desperate inquiries
in a dorm hallway
about what was missed,
but instead
my hands on my handlebars,
him standing beside me,
my sunset shared at last.

Our Day

in 3.5 days
i have climbed two mountains
driven seventeen hours
hiked 1.5 miles
in and out of a canyon
vacuumed the house
bathed and combed three girls
hosted eleven more
drunk seven microbrews
noted the Firefox spelling inadequacies
and noticed that
my friends are all friends
with each other
our kids play like
Fairy Tale Land
perfect combinations of love
and
my veteran husband
can cook hamburgers
like there’s no other option
but meat
on Memorial Day
Love Day
Family Day
Friends Day
Coming Down the Mountain Day
this is Our Day
the love i never had
the friends i never had
the love
the love
the love
all around us.

Parade

trees drip with relentless spring,
weather that doesn’t belong here.
gray skies and chilled air,
we let them go on the last day

we stand under umbrellas, hoods,
huddled in sportsmanslike clutches,
our hands in Miss America waves
as endless yellow buses parade off.

we move into meetings, arguments:
what is best with what we don’t know yet
as rainwater greasily coats the glass,
blocking our view of the mountains.

the parade of buses will bring them back
on a sunny, hot summer day in August,
but we will not be huddled, hands in air,
waving our wanton hands in supplication.

we will wait in gray classrooms, chilled air
as trees glisten with relentless summer,
our view of the peaks shiny and new
their view of the world shiny and new.

Parts of Speech

Nouns:
circles and chains
sunshine and wisps
pavement and dirt
grass and trees
giggles and smiles

Adjectives:
silver and black
warm and blue
smooth and rough
prickly and shady
bubbly and bright

Verbs:
pedal and spin
blare and float
pound and push
lie and relax
laugh and scream