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

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

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

My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.

A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.

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

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

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.

Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down

Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,

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

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

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

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