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

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

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

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and

A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.

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

Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea

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

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

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

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

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