All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them

Who wore a green plastic visor the color of a ginger ale bottle. Who had a raspy voice and Charles Coburn kind of face. A forever bachelor

How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and

A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.

The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning

My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.

I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;

Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes

To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,

Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those

At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun

Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,

Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of