Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
