To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
Today. I’m pausing. And choosing. To break through wherever I’m hostile
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
