for Rachel M. & Durban
Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Who wore a green plastic visor the color of a ginger ale bottle. Who had a raspy voice and Charles Coburn kind of face. A forever bachelor
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Today. I’m pausing. And choosing. To break through wherever I’m hostile
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
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,