#Earth #earthsong #erdenlied #morning #spring
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man