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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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