#clouds #nature #pond #senses #spring #trees #wildflowers
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.