#bicycle #italy #sea #seaside
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools