How that bike trail
leads us into the lake
along a skinny jetty,
until we are small,
obsidian specks
to someone back on shore,
almost all the way
to an island.
And then there is a way
to ride on water,
not walk the way Jesus did.
Not glide over
on some tightrope,
the way crazy, brave people
move from building top
to building top
or across canyons. No.
There is a small ferry.
Not the kind with wings,
but the one with a soft,
puttering motor
to take us beyond
what we know.
Click here to read Sarah Dickenson Snyder on the origin of the poem.
Image: photo by KBO Bike on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
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