Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air

I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;

Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks

After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you

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,

To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.

A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.

However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,

At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,