for P.W.
Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,
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.
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
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
After all the rain monsooning through the day, cascading through the leaves of the still—green— with-Summer trees.
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.