Seventy (to accompany a card)

Hey! Wait up . . .
You do, of course,
take from the bike petal
your sandaled foot
and rest it on the earth.
You turn back and watch
with that arch look; laugh
and apply the power of those
exquisite titanium hips.
The bike rolls forward.

You pass through the trees,
each one connected to its siblings
by a thousand thousand tiny roots.
They bend ever so slightly toward you
and whisper in their leaves.
You don't stop.

This bike path goes down
to the water's edge.
You will not be satisfied with less
than the roll of wave on shell;
of the long perfect horizon.
You will put aside your bike and walk out
onto the hard pan of the beach.

This is
a metaphor, of course;

like love.