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.

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.