Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
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
Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich