Ends
In a downpour
Of water
And words
Sun
Hits
Warm wet dirt
Vapors rise
Grass glistens
Scents
Permeate
Grapes swell
Figs burst
Chimneys
Smoke
Chill
Creeps
Skin crawls
Light glows
The Long Hot Summer
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Powerful. True. All that poetry should be (and usually isn’t). Brava.
A conversation I had yesterday at Fosso, with a very elderly Barghigiano:
“Why must this wind rise so apruptly each afternoon?” he suddenly asked. It was the first time we’d ever spoken.
“The season’s change,” I answered, as though an answer was really called for.
He paused a moment, then touched me lightly on the shoulder. “That change,” he finally said. “I’ve known its arrival more than 90 times. It is the earth’s breath and cycle of my life.”
Then he walked away, back through the Porta Reale.
Thank you, as always, for your comment, and for this stunning image.