Some day, when I’m old enough to ride
my bike without training wheels again,
risking the blood of the scrape,
I hope to become accessible to readers of humanity.
It may all turn out to be quite a challenge, loosing
then growing all those teeth back again
for the taste of raw green fruit in my mouth.
I may yet respect the tree
and not surrender to the vices and the verses of its boughs,
avoiding shade that isn’t shade in winter.
Or I may learn what wasn’t done before
and plant right down in our family grounds
seeds of those forever gone.
I’d water them carefully right
when the sun is just about to go
to quench their thirst.
Won’t care for a single color beyond the maple
ruffled by wind. (That will just be music for remembering.)
I’ll grab my knees close to the chin
right under the sheets
and think of all of you – gone – ‘cause
I’ll be old enough to ride my bike without training wheels again,
your hand just inches from the seat.