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?”