Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man
It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools