Saying the lost names —
how history moves forward,
the ancestor’s job.

Asleep and awake,
gray painted dogs a comfort
to one another.

Blue building, blue sky,
small tin pots hung on shutters,
branches reach for May.

Taking in the sun,
geraniums fill the sill,
like an open eye.

The weight of the glow,
marks every day of her life —
her long, dark heartbreak.

Spring flowers spill out
of the evening window —
we smile underneath.

Cathedral bells peal
even while I brush my teeth —
every thing holy.

At the windowsill
the gray pigeon wakes the man —
won’t be reasoned with.

River made of snow
flows into the warm city,
lit from within.

It keeps returning,
the history we make,
the lives we forget.

These calla lilies —
the first I’ve seen in the wild,
curled with smooth white capes.

Friends on a high hill —
friends walk, amazed by the light,
the blue of the sea.

The sea light, unknown —
it breaks and makes us feel dazed
with faraway air.

The light comes and goes
all day on her face, the hair
Leonardo drew.

Outside the palace,
a baby starling waiting
for breakfast, squawking.

I was in this place
of beauty like no other —
of long history.

The sound their swirl makes —
the black swallows in Parma,
like a plea — or pleas.

First, one sunbathing —
then another comes, tail up,
suddenly there’s six.

The front, unadorned,
arches left empty for blooms —
roses, all colors.

The lessons all learned,
the plaques and words left behind,
and still, we forget.