Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
