nomad.

when they asked her where she’d go,
she told them that the
highest
peaks brought her
closest
to her mother’s arms.
but that the longest rivers reminded
her of the oars her brother used to hold
to slice air and water.

maybe she’d follow roads too far away that she’d
never go back.
living on continuous paths
with no direction,
but smoother streets than her hometown.

if she ever needed a place to lay her head,
she could make her way to Manitoba
and seek sleep in gregarious* Geranium beds.
just like the
ones
her grandmother potted and hung over the porch.

perhaps she’ll find a new bike trail in
Anchor-
age, Alaska
where June sunlight
s t r e t c h e s
across 20 hours.

but when she gets a flat tire,
and her brakes stop working,
and she’s rolling over rocks,
she’ll remember 5 years old.
and her father
taking off training
wheels.