Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
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
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
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
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.