And not a whisp
of breath
did dare appear.
A solitary cloud
ragged as such,
though not
what one would
in a mood of anger
describe and label
without true merit,
it did exhibit
and was wrapped
in silver lining
with a hundred,
perhaps some more,
atomic speckles
of God’s condensation.
The cloud descended
to within heartbeats
of the crowd
which stood
and gawked
and did not miss
a thing of true significance.
It was for me,
as I could only tell
because of past
and well-remembered
childhood experience,
so with a gesture
of noncommittal blunder
I stood at ease
and did receive
the unexpected
and uninvited,
as well as blisteringly,
and blank, unknown
Ooop, Ooop, from there.
It shocked the living
and the other, really
daylights out of me.
Though it was pleasing
to my soul,
beyond belief
at that,
my little devil overseas,
who was now picking
for the harvest,
and in the best
and somewhat ludicrous
tradition, yes tradition,
the bitter olives
down in Tuscany.
Living, if you could
call it that, in houses
completely,
though with competence
and patience,
made of stone,
so many pebbles,
and boulders,
all having learned
to live in closeness.
Dear God of Tuscany,
please keep your watch,
and what else it takes
forever on that girl,
a better specimen
could never be
produced,
even by you.
Before you go,
my Lord,
may I impose on you,
it’s simply for the sake of
and in the name of
my soul (well known to you) ,
would I be now permitted
to send my love
wrapped up securely
in a cloud (a cumulus?)
that you would then
with your own hands
(thus blessed, and thank you God)
put on the road
to distant shores,
which means of course
to take a right
at Bibione,
that way you will avoid
the Kosovo dilemma,
and when pillow reaches
as my dear rep of promise
the settlement of Titirona
you will, without a doubt
become aware
of an angelic smile
on your own face.
That is the nature,
and the essence of
my little devil.
May long she live.