Writing Can Have Side-Effects and Be Habit Forming

Mornings I ride
A bike
To a place
Where I wait
For a poem to come

A piece a day
Whether good or not

Sometimes I hack my
Way through spiny plants
That tear at my skin

Sometimes I surprise
A hawk
Or spot a centipede
As it winds from one hiding place to
The next

More often I just keep
Moving through the wind
The sun
Or the rain

Sometimes the moon
Is blue as ice
Or red

If I just keep showing
Up one will come
Or not

My legs have gotten
Strong
Big as trees