Today I saw a withered
woman pedaling her bike.
Pale legs laced with lines
of age. Blue roadmaps
of streets she had been
on. In the breeze, her upper
arms flapped, pointing away
from her destination.
Crossing an intersection,
a car neared and she
hunkered down and spun
metal. Dimpled flesh smoothed
and white hair became
gold in the sun, and for a flash
fifty years were thrown
over her shoulder and cascaded
down shoulders, rippling.
The black car left-turned,
and the grandma pedaled.