As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.

Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,

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