Air: soft, warm, old, kept and distilled,
grasps my skin in heat so comfortable
enveloping the chill from moments before,
dissolving in a sultry, lustful sun.
Hot wind: solid and intentional,
wavering the stillness
surrounding the ancient new touch.

Men, voices rough with the fragility of age,
shouting foreign words with a friendly bounce.
Language unfamiliar, intent unclear.
Bells ring distantly, and then twice close by.
The avalanche begins, rolling chimes, rolling in time.
An unheard beauty unfolding.
The song of Mother Nature, different than the norm,
dancing around the chimes, complimenting sound.

Traditional and bold,
the spices swing past.
Recipes from generations back.
Gasoline and pollution abide miles away.
Warms and colds become defined,
crisp, triggering hunger.
Carts of fresh pastries release a delicious smell.

Coming to consciousness through scent.
Close to dining, the desire grows.
The cold ruins the warm mouth,
dissolves hunger, sweet and smooth.
Longingly, another sugary scoop drains the tongue.
This soft, delicious taste.

Unmasked beauty in historically bruised walls.
Faces of heroes, faces of citizens,
Colours of all sorts held in small cups and bowls,
Youth spread out soaking in the yellow sun,
Yellow skin and wrinkles instilled over time--
In the piazza.