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.

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

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 historian —
under cloistered squares of sun,
tries to tell it all.

Swallows diving in,
taking wide ancient circles
in cathedral air.

Through the city streets,
long passageways, wingbeats thump —
we follow the light.

Correggio walks
from dome to dome to dome to
draw out what’s holy.

Long arms at its sides,
the pink baptistry holds firm
at city center.