on the Winter Solstice
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
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.
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,