When I came to the U.S.
postal stamps cost 20 cents,
Pabst Blue Ribbon six-pack—$1.49
and one antiquated bar in rural Maryland
still was hiding
segregated area sign
in the dark, smoky corner
inhabited by the shadows
of octogenarians.

The air of the era was hot,
or cold, depending on
the perception of a recipient.
In general, those times
I was looking for love,
not realizing that I already had it.
Nothing new, business as usual,
not so bad, actually:

the clouds coming in
and out and morning dew
vanishingly beautiful
on the windshield of my Jeep.
And when the tree branches
touch the glass
they remind me of a multitude
of tentacles still connecting
the neuropile of life
with the silence of
the underground roots
of dead winter grass.