what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice
I crouch between hours hung limp and fresh
as laundered bedsheets on a line, reining in the dawn
an unstill quiet between an ever-shout of river and source,
learning all I can with hands, mouth, voice.
The night is warmed by a sun who has forgotten it is August,
its first attendants’ cheeks the very blush of pears on the tree
in the first garden terrace – a tree older than me by a century –
yet young and alive with the roosting birds of its fruit.
The last of the dark reels in its nightspell and the garden
becomes suddenly knowing, restless, gloaming with
cats, foxes, a frog on the doorstep the size of my boot;
grapes like amethyst hang hot and low in the arbour, and it is
a lifetime ago, already, the word that launched the owl of my heart into the hunter’s night:
The Aubade is a morning serenade – or lament for the end of the night and the coming of morning.
poems, prose and pathways
Writer | Artist
Fatos e Curiosidades sobre a natureza e tecnologia
Meditations on Art and Life
"per l' allegria il pianeta nostro è poco attrezzato. Bisogna strappare la gioia ai giorni futuri "
a resource for moving poetry
Linking collage work to the meaning of personal and universal symbols.
This is my adventurous story about buying, designing, and renovating homes in ITALY