Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.

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

Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.

Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools

Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off

However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,

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

While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

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

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

Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.

Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat

The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.