A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
Today. I’m pausing. And choosing. To break through wherever I’m hostile
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
