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

After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you

The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.

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

Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.

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

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

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

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

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

It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat