Monte San Savino
entombed and silent,
preserved in smoke,
birthed into the next ancestor
that broke the mold,
like light through endless alleys
searching for a new home.
Blurring into another,
surrounded by remnants,
soon to uncover a passage in time.
Just before Spring
when winter is entwined in a last frost,
you lost your bearings to wandering.
Goals were offered up to a symbolic death.
Mist hanging like a pall on the rooftops,
moving across the stone with a silvery breath,
read in the meandering path like an epitaph to familiarity.
Seized with the reverie
of being lost in a foreign place.
Dragging a tired frame along the ground,
listening for the sound of echoes,
you’ve been here before.
Tracks rebound back to bells,
weaving a litany of spells,
one of which is the wish to remain,
to build a niche to destroy one day.
On burning bridges
you’re caught between places.
All that you built, all the pursuit,
leads to crossroads of dust
and the withering of fruit.
Still, it was nourishment for time,
to fuel the movement.
La Strada is like saying
another knot is coming loose.
New directions bent like stalks of vine
on the road to Gargonza.
Far gone and towards?
Which way is forward?
Deciphering all the cryptic signs
on horizon lines
that conspire in journals
to dissolve barriers
and toss you outside the walls.
You sleep in a contorted position.
The deep dark held you down to dream
of a familiarity skewed
as the motion picture spewed
images across the screen.
until you rifle through
the drawers of your collected meaning.
This drama you may yet comprehend.
This gift to get lost in
your own countryside,
verdant and vast,
vacant for the imagination to cast in clay,
contours to assume
until it comes to decay.
The sun sweetens the grape,
harvests an escape,
while the wind plucks them away.
Another vagrant sure to stray
into different shades,
harmonized with the landscape
of tattered clothes,
of stone stairs and sleeping alone.
Without a home and in limbo,
its the oldest place one can go.