As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,

The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.

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

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

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

Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,

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

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

Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea

Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat

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

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

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