You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong
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.
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
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
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
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,