#bicycle #italy #sea #seaside
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
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
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
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,