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

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

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

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

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

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

At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,

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

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

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

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

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