These Tuscany hills whisper ancient secrets
Into the ears of my soul
As I stand on this tired balcony scanning
shafts of full fluffy woody greenery
Stretching up toward the cloud brushed sky.
Twilight waits while our tardy May sun lingers,
Reluctant to sink behind mammoth mounds.
Misty veiled valleys rest against eastern horizons
Guarded left and right by modulating foothills.
Down amidst the blue lowland mist,
Towers of yesterday poke heavenward
Like tiny pencils awaiting some handscript.
I smile to see the leaning pride of Pisa
among two – no, three -- neighbor turrets erect.
Behind me a centuries-old Medieval tower ruin
Salutes them from the top of my Tuscany hill.
Once I hiked up to it. Now this Yankee visitor
Can only spy from below and remember.
Italy is more than seasoned scenery.
Italy has changed as today’s guests have changed.
Energized engines scoot everywhere on narrow highways,
most mini, many modern.
Ubiquitous bikes, pedaled and motor-powered,
squeeze through frantic traffic
along tree-arched, aquaduct-bordered, lanes.
Lilting laughing language still sings with operatic boldness.
I sense that fewer American sounds now heard here
Than in upper Europe and nordic zones.
The heart of our world’s music still beats best in Italy.
Look around and you discover monumental architecture
and archives dedicated to the great among music’s masters.
Hear arias anthems adagios allegros still rising
From villages amphitheaters bistros bars radios TV
Echoing strains of ancient secrets
Sneaking magically into your soul and mine.
Back home, stateside, I will be listening.
Ciao, amici Italiani!
