She bikes furiously

as the sun hits her face,

and the pedals cycle faster and faster,

the wheels having a hard time keeping up with her breath —

The sun hits her body, filling it with warmth

but she doesn’t notice;

she is filled with a force that propels her forward,

to say hello to the people she encounters along the way,

looking forward to her morning coffee.

She thinks of patterns, and math,

fractals in the treetops,

and how a spot on the wheel perfectly follows a sine curve,

the angles forming triangles and adding up to 360.

Or maybe she doesn’t think of any of these things,

and the thoughts cycle through her head like the wheels on the bike,

and she watches out for squirrels and bunnies and frogs in case they jump in her path.

She loves that she has nowhere to go, nowhere to be, but here,

right now, in this moment.

She loves that her bike is now part of her body, as if the two of them combined

form a single unit, moving through space and time.

These cosmic thoughts light up her soul, and she is happy to think of things

beyond the mundane and ordinary. Like ‘What language do the birds speak?’ and

‘Why is there more perfection in that tree than all of our philosophies combined?’

And suddenly it’s as if there is no boundary between her and anything,

and she feels in the zone.

And it becomes her.

2 thoughts

  1. Dear Mita,
    It is a pleasure to read good writing. I was impressed with your use of language, and I’m impressed with your poem “In the Zone.” Too many people calling themselves poets fall very short — of my standards, anyway.


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