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
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Today. I’m pausing. And choosing. To break through wherever I’m hostile
Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
