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

Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those

Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,

Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny

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

A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.

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

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

It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat

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

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

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

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

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.