Born to an Italian father
and a dreaming,
wide-eyed American,
travel was my fortune,
my life before I chose it.

One late September evening,
my wide-brimmed
velvet hat and I  
discovered
what it was to fly.

Surging through moving sculptures
of clouds,
riding the Pan Am night
flight to London,
I was nine, and I was hooked.

Peter Pan was my secret love then.

I had saved my loose tooth
for the English tooth fairy, wishing
and hoping for an English penny.

Scones and bridges from my books
were real now to taste and see.

I began to write then, mostly
in my mind.

That was how I lived then,
and still do.

Finding and forming
words within for everything.

A sacred artesian spring,
i Fonti del Clitunno.
Perfection at Paestum.
Stonehenge,
when one could still
walk among those holy stones.

The early church of Santa Sabina,
whose high windows
transmit light
through membranes of mica.

The abiding silence
of these ancient, sacred places
  held me transfixed.

Continuity of time flowed,
like invisible honey,
all around me.

I wanted to taste it with my mind.
Know it with all of my being.
And one day, find the right words.