Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man

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

If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places

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

What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.

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

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,

Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea

It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong

The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

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

A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.