Everything is Beautiful
With metal pedals churning
I aim my treaded tire
up the silvery trail of frost below.
Coils of wet smoke
swirl from my flared nostrils
fogging the sunglasses that sit above them.
Here, I sweat pain:
clear, colorless, salty droplets of blood
that soak my entire shirt
and shiver me in this frigid.
But I whirl onward
toward that old arthritic orchard,
its bare branches gnarled with apricot bones.
There, I whip my wheels around
and descend into hip-high straw-colored grass
that sways and waves in the same breeze
sighing through my swirling spokes.
As I gather speed,
freedom and flow fuse,
melting away the fears, angers, and doubts
that dwell in the skull beneath my helmet.
Likewise, the landscape ahead of me
blurs and smudges into a pastel painting
of faded earthen tones:
dying sages, burnt clays, and brittle wheats.
Both the insecurities inside of me
and the sights that surround me
blend together until there is nothing left.
Suddenly everything disappears.
I am no longer mountain biking
and I am no longer burdened.
I am just me,
and everything is beautiful.
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