So much depends upon the pink bicycle
I’m not a poet (though I used to be one), so please excuse this random reference to William Carlos Williams’ The Red Wheelbarrow. I walked for miles along the streets of Amsterdam, crossed many a bridge whose iron railings were lined with tightly packed bikes, took many a photo of such, but only this one made the cut. Without the pink bicycle, this would be just another photo of a bridge over an Amsterdam canal. Who parked this pink bicycle there? Surely some tall, clog-wearing Holland blond, whose smile could blind, adorned it with petals she had plucked fresh that very morning.
The flowers turned out to be fake and the cobwebs between the wheel spokes spoke. So much much depends upend the pink...
So much depends upon the pink bicycle
I’m not a poet (though I used to be one), so please excuse this random reference to William Carlos Williams’ The Red Wheelbarrow. I walked for miles along the streets of Amsterdam, crossed many a bridge whose iron railings were lined with tightly packed bikes, took many a photo of such, but only this one made the cut. Without the pink bicycle, this would be just another photo of a bridge over an Amsterdam canal. Who parked this pink bicycle there? Surely some tall, clog-wearing Holland blond, whose smile could blind, adorned it with petals she had plucked fresh that very morning.
The flowers turned out to be fake and the cobwebs between the wheel spokes spoke. So much much depends upend the pink...