for P.W.
#1950s #bluerinse #boyhood #growingup #hair #hairdresser #kansas #memories #midwest #mother #nostalgia #wichita
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
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.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.