I used to ride my bike to school,
And the way cut through these woods.
It’s strange to think:
At nine years old, in just fourth grade,
Alone on a bicycle, and yet,
It is the truth.
My brother and I came out here, too,
On weekends: he’d shown me the path
Past the power lines, taking the fork left,
And coming out by the school.
For a bicycle meant freedom,
And a forest, exploration,
And the right to go on my own
Sanctified the destination —
We yearn to be connected,
But long to be on our own,
Like a forest, growing, full of life,