#Earth #earthsong #erdenlied #morning #spring
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
It arrives on a warm white cloud. It arrives on soft rolls of ocean waves along a sand pebbled shore. It arrives on a bed
The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
Who wore a green plastic visor the color of a ginger ale bottle. Who had a raspy voice and Charles Coburn kind of face. A forever bachelor
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.