When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
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 Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun