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

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

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

Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of

Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny

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

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

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

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

It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong

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

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

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

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