Cyclist Encounters an Insect
This butterfly, the touch of a cat’s soft paw
Against my chest. A short moment of vibration.
The soft claw of wing’s edge. Then air.
Lawrence N. DiCostanzo
On the Volcano road,
May 27, 2007
Resurrection
Bury me in a meadow, some untilled waste,
Next to fields of lettuce or off the highway’s verge.
Let it be my stone, engraved in repeated rotation
Through timeless years. Where rabbits start in the grass,
Mice rustle, and slender king snake makes his way,
In the warm breezeless understory of bush and weed;
Where song sparrow hangs on sideways to dry stalk,
And kestrel teeters, flaps, teeters, on rigid feathers
Spread out in points. Here it is dry and quiet.
And, when the Resurrection comes, let the trumpet be
The brassy, tuneless vibration of the bee, against the clacking
Of locust wings. Let my waking eyes gaze up
On sweet fennel or Queen Anne’s lace in sun.
And, if God should come to look for me, Let Him be
The cyclist, pausing to rest. Hands light
On handlebars and saddle, He gazes on this modesty.
And let Him say: This is too good to waste.
Lawrence N. DiCostanzo
June 27 – 28; September 14, 2005
Top of the World: Bicycling Coleman Valley Road
I climb above the fog, yet do not know
The reason for this effort. Can it be
The pleasure when I draw up and see
How sunlight blankets rolling grassland with no
Dark tree to stitch it to the blue. I slow
And see the seam of the horizon smooth
Against a bowl of blue, the only truth
And world my distant forebears long ago
Could love. They hoped beyond that line
There await the lovely muscled herds, the streams
Of fish, the comfort of a hunt: in short, the Place
Where limbs feel happy aches. God, rushing by when time
Runs down, should see I have romantic dreams
And fondly scoop me up from this high place —
The cycling dawdler with the dreamy face.
Lawrence N. DiCostanzo
July 12 – 15, 2009
