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

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

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

All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them

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

Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make

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

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

I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;

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

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air

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.

Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes