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.
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
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 tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.