for Rachel M. & Durban
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.
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
It arrives on a warm white cloud. It arrives on soft rolls of ocean waves along a sand pebbled shore. It arrives on a bed
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
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.
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.