#clouds #nature #pond #senses #spring #trees #wildflowers
Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.