#bicycle #italy #sea #seaside
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
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,
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of
It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.