I should have come to the woods sooner,
just after a swoop of finches rose gold and black
from the queen's lace, frightened by my passing
as I leaned into the bend near the end of my ride,
tattered gray clouds dragging their skirts
across the ridges, blue in the mists of evening,
when I stopped on the bridge over the creek
and switched off the engine to listen
to last night's rain purling beneath me
and doves calling in chords,
while the hills were still peaceful,
and the new motorcycle still gave me unqualified joy,
untempered by a friend's reasoned criticism
echoing over the fields and in my head,
before I came to the woods to consider myself
healthy and sane, seeking out a little fun
in the midst of aging's griefs.
