Life will not be crushed. I feel it
rippling beneath pavement,
tree roots forging cracks in blacktop,
carving a washboard under my wheels,
rattling my very bones as I ride.
On my left over the long swath of green,
weeds strain to root deeper, push skyward,
persistent after the mower’s raze,
clawing at headstones,
obscuring engraved names.
I pump the pedals and my wheels roll on.
I hear my heartbeat drum at my core,
and the road ahead rides
on an age before, when a life breath ceased,
names etched on torn hands.
One short sleep wakened,
an inexorable stone
rolled over that ground,
flattening it for all the ages.
When my rhythm breaks,
when these wheels halt,
when my name stands graven in stone,
life will not be crushed. I feel it.