All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
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.
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
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.