Wooden Bicycle
I have a wooden bicycle
Made from strong red oak.
The texture is coarse
With straight grain and a few
Knots like dark oases rising
In a reddish tan desert.
The chain is fabricated
From spruce - the same wood
Used for crafting vintage violins.
As I swerve around corners
It whirrs with a clear tone
Equal to the finest Stradivari.
My handlebar horn of whittled
Ponderosa pine emits shrill
Warning calls of frightened
Woodland birds, and the tires,
Shaped from black willow trunk,
Leave resin tracks like clues
In a mystery novel.
It’s dependable and solid
For transporting goods
Home from the market,
But when I cycle
Through its sylvan home,
Sap begins to run through its veins
And twigs emerge
From the dogwood pedals.
And when I stop to rest
It instantly shoots sinuous roots
Deep into the forest floor.