The Serchio River Valley
Is the central corridor
Of a giant roofless ruin.
Mountain spurs
Are perpendicular walls.
Valleys are rooms.
Vigilant, the village outposts
Perch on the edges of the rubble.
Cantilevered on the mountainsides
Is a labyrinth
Of gently winding roads,
From which I watch spring
Climb slowly to the top.
First, the cherries blaze,
Sconces scattered
On dark gray walls.
