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
Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
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
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich