A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.

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.

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

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

Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks

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

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

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

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

What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.

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

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

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