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

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

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

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

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

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

A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.

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.

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

Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man

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

The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning