for Rachel M. & Durban
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
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.
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny