When I taught you <br />at eight to ride <br />a bicycle, loping along <br />beside you <br />as you wobbled away <br />on two round wheels, <br />my own mouth rounding <br />in surprise when you pulled <br />ahead down the curved <br />path of the park, <br />I kept waiting <br />for the thud <br />of your crash as I <br />sprinted to catch up, <br />while you grew <br />smaller, more breakable <br />with distance, <br />pumping, pumping <br />for your life, screaming <br />with laughter, <br />the hair flapping <br />behind you like a <br />handkerchief waving <br />goodbye.<br /><br />Linda Pastan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-daughter-leaving-home/
