The enoughness of this

The bicycle in the field,
waiting with leaves in its basket, I mistake it for mine.
I ride it over the long grass up the hill
and I bless the fields, trees,
metal that made the bike, inventor of the bicycle, wind in my hair,
the ways that bicycles transported me before
and then I am here again, in my body, 264 miles from home,
where I am already the keeper of 3 bicycles, so I leave it for the next cyclist.

Later we take the truck to a rest area in a rainstorm
we put sheets over the windows and make love in the back,
in a bed made from the feathers of geese,
and those birds I am thankful for,
they cradle my shoulders,
while trees rustle, highways thud,
and cars stop for rest all around us.

I praise the rain, the warmth of my love’s breath,
the way I can love this human once and then again,
12 years later and in some wildly different way.
On the way home I sleep as we slide
across the belly of New England.
Outside the rain falls on our green truck,
on this damp highway,
in this small space I have
a body with all its pieces, love, a bed of feathers,
a change of clothes.
The bicycle back on the hillside sits ready for the next rider,
and I have enough.

Beth Royer