After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
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
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.