In Tuscany

we waken to
the bright, Italian
argument of birds,

startling the cypress tree
that stands beneath
the window’s lavish
burden of wisteria.

Each day arrives with wings…
the sound of matins
from the abbey
in the olive grove.

All day, we roam the countryside,
solve the puzzles of walled cities,

watch the way the late light
shifts, falls softly, as if
through a sheer curtain,
giving an aura
to the hills.

At night,
we drink chianti
in the square
beneath a broken moon.

Asleep, I find myself back home,
caught in the hands of clocks,
the scribbled squares
of calendars,

until I wake, released into
this perfect dream of Tuscany,
this bright, Italian
argument of birds.