The First Bike Ride

I like empty parking lots

after fall storms.

Humid air clings to clammy skin

hard breaths puff from lungs.

Like mirages,

miniature puddles gleam in the

peaking sun.

Rays poke through-

left over clouds hanging

low,

for that last chance

shower.

Training wheels and two-wheelers

cycle ’round my memories-

shadows,

in empty parking lots

dancing after fall storms.

 

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First Day of Winter

November twenty-second, winter settled in my bones. Twigs crackled under my feet like my brittle bones in this damp chill. A cacophony of birds has taken shelter in a hodge-podge of trees. I myself had found refuge under a meek looking pine. The rain cascaded down.

Camping, came to mind. Wet pine and tree. The melting marshmallows over poping red-yellow fire. It had been a few years, but the memory was still fresh. I had seen her then.

I stood up into a puddle-turned-lake, my shoes soaked through. Socks becoming a soggy, squishy mush on my toes. The one day a year my mother would come to visit, and I was a squeaky, squashy sopping mess. I tucked my hair into my hood lifting it onto my head. Darkness settled over the city casually, extending its fingers cloud by cloud, star by star until a light dusting of blackness blanketed my way home. I hoped she would show.