Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich

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

Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,

Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools

Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off