#clouds #nature #pond #senses #spring #trees #wildflowers
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
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
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks
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
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,