Drive as a passenger through Tuscany,
and even if you squint
or fall asleep, but catch brief glances
through curtained blinks,
still you will see
rows of green and cream-yellow fields,
vineyards, grey crooked branches
pointing to the soil
like rows of gnarled, arthritic fingers
poised above piano keys.
You’ll catch the green guard
of cypress trees,
thin as pipe cleaners,
straight as hard-backed chairs.
Farmhouses, roofed in rust
and terra-cotta,
bodied in hazel hues,
paths that meander through the fields
like sienna colored snakes
among the wheat fields and olive groves.
Hills will always interrupt the valleys—
bends will surprise roads,
and even in winter,
fallow-looking fields
are crowded with the sleep of sunflowers,
waiting for August.
Available from Finishing Line Press.