for P.W.
#1950s #bluerinse #boyhood #growingup #hair #hairdresser #kansas #memories #midwest #mother #nostalgia #wichita
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
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
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.