Christmas Ride (for Erma Lucille Carlson, 1906-1990)

There was snow up on Mary's Peak that Christmas morning
when I got my first taste of pure joy
and the taste was good
though I went out to ride in light rain
and on boards of wood
made slick by the treatment of oil.

I skidded around every corner and a few times fell,
but that didn't stop me riding.   
If there's a hell,
there was certainly no sign of it that day.

That day was all miracles and signs: how you were there,
but didn't prevent me from riding;
how new paint flashed
in the light from the lights overhead;

how the wet spokes gleamed
and glistened with the pride of my riding;
how my bike grew wings
as I gave to it the strength of my body.

I hope you know how strongly that bike spoke of love,
how today I treasure
and regard that memory as a measure
of your love and God's.