for P.W.
#1950s #bluerinse #boyhood #growingup #hair #hairdresser #kansas #memories #midwest #mother #nostalgia #wichita
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
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
Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
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
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes