Last night I rode the hills around your house.
Uphill and down, a furling vein of road
Ran on between the yards and evening porches,
Rough-patched against sleek wheels of ermine black.
I laughed with joy; you rode a breath behind
On my green bike (I piloted the grey).
Once I glanced back, ducking beneath my elbow
To catch sight of your incandescent smile.
The world was still; the windless evening air
Carried the laughing voices of some girls
Who gathered in the gloaming of the porch-light
To gossip while the gentle twilight closed.
If I did not awake, it would be heaven:
To ride with you those half-dark, quiet hills
And breathe the scent of late-flown honeysuckle,
And, smiling, let you catch me on the climbs.