Up the hills, past villas, small groves and arbors.  And by the Duomo, which, I swear, moved into our path no matter where we went.  The fifteenth century refuses to yield.

That giant rival, Milan, now resembles Hartford: large and gaunt. Rome, thief of the renaissance, remembers Mussolini and Berlusconi more than Leo X, who yet lives in Florence, returned to his Medici home.

Florence is the butter of civilization’s milk; nourishment of the flesh churned by hand.  The art, the food, the social structure, even the soccer sated in turned, sweet cream.

Fresh oil, fresh wine.  Old recipes.  The bread remains salt free. The tripe looks ancient.  The streets forever too narrow.

Between the summer
Sky pouring rain and mosquitoes,
The pious still calling on God to provide dew.

Between the heat and flip flops,
Frogs and bugs in chorus,
Nights that arrive after bedtime.

Between the days that should never end,
And between the days that should never come,
But stay for six or seven months
With snow and cold under a grey ceiling.

Between the sweaters and flannel
Unable to resist cold's ice.
Manufactured heat cracking the skin.

Between the days of breakfast and dinner eatened in the dark.

I sit in a Sukkah on a quiet afternoon.
My fleece playful in the light breeze.
Thin clouds riding a blue sky.

A moment of living.
Autumn is the here and gone.
A moment between the warm sun and the mere light.

The room of the Sovereign's palace
In which I gladly wait.
Sorry for what is gone; in fear of what will soon arrive.

God's crown sits on a maple.
My prayer is only for today.