Poem submitted to “Songs About Bicycles” poetry contest, Mark Springer, sponsor, March 21, 2026
Rust and chrome, a hand-me-down bike, granddad’s grease still singing in the spokes, each turn a prayer he hammered back to life~ the bent frame straightened under stubborn love, the chain baptized in oil and patience. Ten years old, I straddled time itself: the saddle, cracked like his laughter, the pedals, spinning secondhand stars beneath my untested feet. He said, Every wobble teaches balance, and the road rushed up to meet me, not as a stranger, but as a conspirator~ wind in my face, the world unspooling behind me like a liberated kite. Even now, the ghosts of those handlebars twitch in my palms—how they trembled before they learned to trust the fall, before the wheels, like memory, stopped fighting the curve. O first flight, O rattling heirloom, you were never just a bike~ you were my resurrection. related memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_girl_a_bike_a_librarian_and_a_magical_spell_13645
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