Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,

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

Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich

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

The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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