#30DaysofBiking: The Waste Land

April is the cruelest month but kindness does not trigger the same memories or impose the same rhythm on the day. Too early, too dark, too cold at this moment -- I wait for the earth to turn a bit, for the sun to brighten the eastern clouds.

Now is not the time to rush into darkness. I wait in my room and reread a poem I've never fully forgotten or remembered.

what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms

The day is here now, revealed not by bright color but by infinite shades of grey -- the snow settled on my neighbor's roof, woodsmoke curling skyward, frost trying to hold back the eager buds of spring.

That tiny bit of color, there despite the snow, the frost, the grey despair.

Blood is shaking my heart -- red, not grey, living, not dead. By this, and this only, we exist.

I brush snow from the saddle. It is brighter now, the world containing The Waste Land is more than a wasteland.

I undo the lock, hop on my bike and leave behind an empty room.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson

Issaquah WA USA