Man and Bike

"How many miles to the sun?" He smiled

In answer to my "Where are you going?"

Lilacs were caught in his handle bars,

His pedals were mud, his eyes were stars,

His hair was blowing.

What could he find in clouds that were piled

As black as night in the early morning?

The daily paper, punctual, furled,

Lay on my stoop with news of the world

And doubtless a warning,

But under the oak beside his bike

The man lay down and the storm came over:

Grass turned yellow and branches blue...

After a while he laced his shoe

With heads of clover.

Where was he going? What was he like?

The sun came out in a burst of sprinkling;

He sprang on his bike. I see him still-

Taking the turn and topping the hill,

His spokes are twinkling.