Flickering gently in the pink-golden light
That tiptoes through the half-open window
Thinking to surprise us with the newborn day.
The city blares a welcome home,
The tree-lined sidewalk already teeming – still teeming –
With the blood-forced pulse that has
Compelled us to come back to where we began –
To the city insanity that revives the
Very marrow of our souls.
In the Tuscan Hills. Our garden has been tended,
And the villa walls are fortified for the season,
The hills around it are secure.
No winter rains, no summer dust will drive
The ancient heart from our retreat
We can always go back, and we shall.
But for now, we sit in silence
Regenerated by the thrumming rhythmic riffs
Repeated in refrains hummed in retreating shadows
At the corners of our sight.
Chase down a film at the Forum or maybe at MOMA.
Or perhaps tonight you have your own plans
As I have mine . . . whatever they may be.
But for now there is only this scintillating
Silence of our intimate sharing.
Each of us immersed in our separate world of words
I at my computer, seeking, coffee mug for strength
You with your papers, reading, Espresso tasse for taste.
You clear your throat, and I no longer cover my ears
Your distraction no longer threatens to obscure the words
At the core of my self.
I no longer simply see you, no longer simply read you
I feel you all around me, in the wash of my emotion,
In the cooling crepuscule of pink-golden light
Tiptoeing gently thru a now-open window and
Tinkling with the laughter of