While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

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

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

Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.

The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun

Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea

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

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

The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning

The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.

Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich

Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.