for P.W.
#1950s #bluerinse #boyhood #growingup #hair #hairdresser #kansas #memories #midwest #mother #nostalgia #wichita
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
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
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
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,
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny