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Lands on Lavender

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At sixty-five, sorrow follows
the woman inside. She aches to ride
the two-wheeler she did at ten, not

hike through town, left foot,
right foot pound the ground, nor will
she sit on a gym machine,

circle her feet
in one space and go no place.
Fun arouses her as she mounts

a mountain bike wobbles, peddles fast,
splits the wind, curves corners, screams Wow!
dips at tiny ramps, pushes under oak trees,
ducks beneath spruces and pines, soaring—

flips, tumbles, (as she roars!), lands in lavender
with bloody scrapes on knees and thighs
nearby concrete, but rises undeterred,
swoons with a surging heart.