The fluid truth of the ride
overwhelms the senses--there is no
verbage to convey the amazement.
There is only pavement, and its curls
and licks and lovely dips
like my own wide hips.
There is only tree tops
ocher, brown, yellow, green
like all the colors in my hair.
There is only wind
soft and hard all at once
and shimmering and complete.
And there is sky.

The presence of the Self
deepens as the throttle rolls
and I become hands and feet,
hips and head
turns and twists and deep sighed breath
and all the parts of the body
that make me work.

To maximize a lean one must
tuck the neck, drop the elbow
lean a bit and give it throttle.
Downshift maybe, maybe not.
See it through until it stops.
Imagine what's on the other side
and breach it with ferocious drive.
Or drift!
Drift through and see the leaves,
the purple hum of pavement,
the swish of cars that pass.
Dwell in the moment of the curve;
if not! Beware! The impetuous may fall
and then the drive's no fun at all.

Instead, be lean and wary.
See the Rider as only atoms, floating through
the densest Proof. And then--
I become the Ride and all it means.
A simple being over an engine.
A magical test of faith.
A solid fragment of myself.
A woman on a motorcycle