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Greenbelt
by Kristina WoodhillThe straight stretch on the greenbelt is an easy warm-up on my bike -
an old railroad bed converted to a paved path,
a raised vantage point to backyard gardens on the west
and a fine view, albeit hazy, of the Boise mountains to the east.
Always intriguing, the back yards reveal much about the inhabitants
I rarely see at early hours; I do not dwell on that this morning,
except to note the still stark, green lawn surrounding the two story house
with no angles, no flower beds, no trees, no shrubs.
The house juts up, the grass is cut down;
it is an unnatural feeling of side-by-side, up to down, pulling apart.
I can see only into what must be the dining room, for there is a table
on which rests what can only be a computer.
and I ponder if
that might be
where life grows
and blooms there,
deep within
deep within
I pass few people on the greenbelt, but this morning
you would have felt the amazing confluence
of a couple pushing a pram with a wiggling blanket
a young balding man jogging
and an aging crone on a bike
all passing within a foot of each other.
That was a freeze frame for your black and white, George.
That was a moment of poetic mystical physics, Quentin,
where nature abhors a vacuum
and the magnetic poles ka-chunk together.
Leaving the flat trail I head for a few challenging hills and pass Skyview High
where on weekends motorcycle riders are put through their paces preparing for 'the test'.
Round and round they drive, orange pylons guiding like de-headed dunce caps.
Reminding me, naturally, of a gas station in eastern Idaho last weekend
where we in the car were observing a group of Harley Baby Boomers
milling about their parked bikes, looking snazzy and sexy
in their black leather leggings and vests.
A second splits - the solid thunk as the big bike fell over on the big hunk of a man
was palpable to hear and painful to watch; he was down and under and stuck.
Bike buddies rushed to resurrect both, although I suspect his pride is still
lying there squirming and searching for a place to hide.
I smile, shake my head, and grind up a dirt hill to cross over to the home-stretch street.
There are already a few cars at the stake house on this Sunday morning.
The grounds are groomed and primped, ready to receive sinners and sub-sinners alike.
Passing by I have to chuckle at the tall maturing weed grass seed heads
poking through all along the pure white slat fence on the south perimeter,
all pointing at the church and whispering in the breeze,
like the biddies from the neighboring churches have done since 1830,
"cult, pagan, unchristian, heathen, (not like us, not like us, not like us)".
Ride on, crone, the last hill awaits.
A golden lone raspberry is lying on the pavement near the sidewalk.
A plump apricot is on the ground under its tree, sinking into compost.
Now, that's blasphemy...
I ride up and over - the flat is wide open, no vehicles but me
and like the independentamericanliberalwomanclosetinyourfacecougarwannabe
I sprint the center yellow line in defiance,
brake where the pavement meets our dirt road
and slowly pedal my way through the rocks and dust to home.
08/24/2008 Posted on 08/24/2008
Copyright © 2026 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 08/24/08 at 07:45 PM A nice descriptive ride and write m'lady. And to be included, what and honor. It sounds as if you had quite a ride. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 08/25/08 at 01:26 AM Some pretty rich imagery going on here. Wonderful reading. |
| Posted by Laurie Blum on 08/25/08 at 02:32 AM I loved this look along yur bike trail! How colorful and fresh! Humorous and fun! Loved it! |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 08/25/08 at 03:39 PM ...seems like there was a place where you left out a reference to me nahahaha, but oh well, i live thru you ride, though i am tired...i do love this early morning trek, felt it too...good write, kristina |
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