Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.

Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat

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

However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,

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

Who wore a green plastic visor the color of a ginger ale bottle. Who had a raspy voice and Charles Coburn kind of face. A forever bachelor

The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.

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

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,

I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;

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

My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.

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