Falling Off
After picking a random tree at some distance
from where I stopped, he puffed up and set
out,
his face halfway between anxious and proud,
but soon fell off with rueful shout, down and
out
for the count, possibly at three pushed
pedals,
plunging not even close and certainly no
medal.
I told him he should expect some knocks in
life
as he spat out gobfuls of grass then looked across
at his mother solo texting, unconcerned and
lost
in some other time, anywhere but be here now.
I wondered where in the world his father was,
if that heart ever took time to think or
pause
but guessed not and, maybe glad, set to again
watching as the glittering wheels failed to
spin,
gravity pulling him in, rage written on thin
skin
secretly knowing all seafarers are quite
right in
albatross omens of tacking too close to the rim
to fall off heart’s edge in cartwheeled tumbling.
I assured him belief was the key, as he made
it to three, or maybe four before touching
floor
then booting obstinate bike with petulant
glare
before stretching out arms. I ruffled some
hair,
shifted him full upright, gazing into the
weight
of our problem, for the path stretched straight
to distant tree, while gravity clutched us
close
in love and learning, an unspoken orbit of
trust
that had yet to be broken, written in stardust,
and yet, it must. And on the third day he flies
forwards as the master, a jubilant shout at
last,
leaves me puffed out and many years down past.
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