#clouds #nature #pond #senses #spring #trees #wildflowers
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
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
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
At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.