My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.

If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places

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

Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat

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

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

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

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.

Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off

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

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

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