#clouds #nature #pond #senses #spring #trees #wildflowers
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
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