Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off

The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.

If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.

Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make

To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,

What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.

Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.

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

Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks

Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes

As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,