for P.W.
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
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
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and