A poem, “a bicycle on the move,” submitted by Romina, age 46.
A bicycle on the move
Maintenance, did you say?
Tires are getting low
Too many holes in the road
Bumps have affected my shape
And I am carrying a heavy weight
The breeze feels refreshing but cold
Cold gets into my inner emptiness
Emptiness. Is that how it feels? What’s wrong?
Other bikes are riding along…
I have no clear path or freedom
There is fog menacing my wisdom
Sounds of nature are suddenly close
I feel the soft soil embracing my rubbery soles
Humidity first, waters flow,
I am floating, I am resting on the move