A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.

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

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

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

While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

It arrives on a warm white cloud. It arrives on soft rolls of ocean waves along a sand pebbled shore. It arrives on a bed

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

The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.

To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,

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

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

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