It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong

Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man

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

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

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

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

How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and

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

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

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

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

Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools

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