#bicycle #italy #sea #seaside
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.
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,
Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
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.
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.