Each High Hill

Each high hill
wears a village
as a crown,

each village, wound
around a church.

I light two candles
at the Virgin’s feet
in every church
in Tuscany.

The first, I light
in memory of you
and say your favorite prayer.

The second one
I light for mother.

Once the two tall candles
tipped together
in a single flame

and I could hardly wait
to call and tell her.

Flying home,
outside the window
of the plane,

I watch the stars come out,

like someone
lighting candles
in the sky.