The Red Bicycle

A tiny blue house sat on the sand

     under a cerulean sky,

solidly perched on four sturdy stilts

     on a dune that seemed so high.

It could be seen from miles away

     on this beach that was wild and free,

and soon it would greet its new visitors,

     a holiday family of three.

The mother was first to see it

     basking in the sun,

Oh, Jack, how pretty it is,

     a watercolor will be such fun,

and she reached into the backseat

     to search for her supplies,

and woke little Melissa,

     sleep still in her eyes.

The days of the family vacation

     ran together like chocolates on the hot beach.

Dad fished and swam, Mom painted and read, and

     brave Melissa played a game no one should teach,

as on her red bike she sped toward the waves,

     and at the salty clash of collision

reveled in her admirers’ raves.

     For a week it went on like this,

but the wind picked up and shifted

     and no longer felt like a kiss,

and on the horizon there was a change,

     black boiling clouds

that looked like a mountain range.

     Then the storm was upon them,

and they were alarmed,

     so Dad reassured them

that they wouldn’t be harmed—

     the blue house was built to withstand this blow,

every component hurricane tested,

     this rental is my friend’s livelihood,

his life savings are invested,

     and remember those stilts

holding us so high above land

     and so firm they can’t break

and send us crashing onto the sand.

The storm is now long over,

     and what’s left to say

after the wind and water raged

     and the sands of the dune gave way?

Extending upward four wobbly matchsticks remain,

     but the sky is out of their reach,

and farther out near the water

     a rusting red bicycle lies on the beach.