The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun

While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.

After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you

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

How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and

The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning

Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those

Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air

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

Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea