The wind lifts and gusts,
a squeaky whine of bicycle tire on hot asphalt,
she rides the air with bits of dust and street debris
and the cyclist sweats the streets to puddles.
Her lithe body is frosted and at float
his lean frame bends like the letter P
she buds so nearly at the ends
his rusted fingers grip roughened handlebars.
She spins amidst a rush of mountain air
and he shifts to keep the sore on his left buttock off the saddle.
Up for air, the bud is revealed, calm and purple
as he grits his teeth for emotional ease
the sun dashes through the cloud and bounces,
his attention wavers, momentarily, up to the little flower
her, who is momentously happy in her airwave recoil,
his helmet grows lighter to loosen his brow.
She takes interest in the cyclist.
His gaze lengthens when he sees,
with endless patience, her flutter lower,
his black gloved hand soon heavy with company.
Her warm white body so frail and tasteful
nibbling at his bare finger bones to pleasing effect
a gust sweeps the fragile petals to unveil themselves.
He watches as life demonstrates on his hand.