my father is rattled when the wind blows from the east
he is a dashed rock a greybeard
and he is a boy and bicycle
chasing storms he always knew
the air goes green
scabby knees hounding thunder
from the sky
a lifetime of windswept and seachange
attuned craggy mottled locked
in to every
blister and cajole
what is it like to know the wind so old man
or is it you who are known to them
sometimes we come in limping
our bicycle built for two
having seen better days
somewhere along the way
spokes were bent
heart gears catching
desire a tire tread worn thin
and once brave hearts
balk at the thought of
riding such a rusted beast
for endless numbered days
but thankfully you are a mechanic
and in the corner of your shop
is a patient stool
and I have the rest of the afternoon
to wile away any window of mercy
to once again
put my faith
in your kind and sooted hands
