for P.W.
#1950s #bluerinse #boyhood #growingup #hair #hairdresser #kansas #memories #midwest #mother #nostalgia #wichita
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
A sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.