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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,

The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.

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