Tuscany

 

What a wonderful day it had been.

I sat with a few newfound friends,

an accidental meeting between us,

the non-painters on the tour, 

way, way, way high up

in a small Tuscan village,

in a tiny home-made-restaurant.

Bel canto music purred

In hidden speakers.

The dishes looked like canvasses.

peasant food made fabulous.

I wasn’t hungry, so I passed.

I wasn’t thirsty, either,

but I drank the wine.

We talked,

then we walked,

and talked some more,

about nothing, mostly.

I bought a small painting

from a small studio,

for a small number of Euros.

It hangs now in a small corner of our home,

and in a big part of my memory. 

We rode down

to our Montecatini hotel

in a bright red funicular

and never once thought 

to sing Volare.

What a wonderful day it had been.