I have nothing more to say, except that this really happened.
Le Colline della Toscana in Primavera
Paola speaks English like my Italian –
A jumble of key words joined by hit-or-miss
Conjunctions and directions.
“See you reach small village name Rosano
All right from bridge then
Other way to road no pav-ed.
You turn to villa here.”
On the phone, in the dark,
I hear U-turn
But in miraculous ways
Try to think like Paola.
There was no U-turn, just a left
Beyond the village as the villa
Lit the track with welcome.
Morning unfolded like
Waking from an ages-old sleep, the hills’
Rich dough turning slowly in the chef’s bowl,
Toes pressing into cool grass,
Distance beckoning from olive grove,
Vineyard and thicket.
Near and far, the quiet, blood-warm breeze
Floated a gentle condiment: a fairy river
Of seeds of giant dandelion.
Thick in the air, they softened perception
From dream-like to dream; we did not move
Lest we wake again.
Paola sang from the kitchen;
Niccolo smiled beside us, reading our thoughts,
“It is a dream, yes?”