Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
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.
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you