DOSS0* 2008

Across the gray gravel road,
abandoned farmhouses squat
silent and stone-faced
amid stately cypresses.
Pink-patched walls weary,
half-shuttered windows gaping,
they wait like wistful old women
for their families to return.

But here in Nonna’s garden
crowds of lavender
explode from cracked clay urns.
Above the wide entrance
where Joseph’s coat
flutters across the opening,
a rusty railing releases
flower falls of bloody geraniums.
Nearby, glistening braids of garlic
dangle from a trembling trellis
resting against the mossy henhouse.
Its speckled tenants
dance a lively tango
under the skeletal clothesline
where a billowing blue shirt
salutes a passing cyclist.

Standing barefoot
in the warm earth of Italy,
I hear voices in the distance,
the singing ghosts of her children
streaming across
shimmering fields of memory
to embrace me.


*A town in the region of Emilia Romagna,
now the home of Museo Lamborghini