Time passes.
That saves us.
Italy is old,
yet the black shutters of our room
open like eyelids.
My heart flies into the distance.
The hills of Monte Catini
are gentle and blue.
Monte Catini is young with love.
We danced last night
along the street.
We took a carousel ride
and held hands.
There was music
and people gazing into glasses.
Children licking ice cream
from their cones.
The street moved with its people,
silk windows of light,
no one hurrying.
I felt Mary’s hand in mine,
the touch of the carousel,
our feet stepping from the curb,
saw the luster of geraniums
leading to a door.
It was not just beauty
that moved me.
It was youth,
dust coming into flower,
lives rich with perfume,
eyes,
huge in the face of children,
and you and I,
finding in a faraway town
the omnipresence of home.