The poplars' lengthening on this hill,
amid the rows of marigolds and earth,
and through the box hedge labyrinth we walk,
together, to the choiring twilight bells.
~
Their fugue of echoes echoes through the hills
and sings against this time-streaked, flowering wall
where breezes coax the potted lemon trees,
the pendant, yellow fruit and shiny leaves.
Beneath the flaming watercolor sky,
the cultivated, terraced drop of hill,
a gleaming city with its towers and domes,
the Arno shimmering as it drowns the sun,
and a Poet cries.
~
Chameleon-like, I am transformed by the light
of his love and wine has blurred the edges of the
night.

What gifts I could ever give him on this night
or any other night may be retracted in another
light.

You understand this in a foreign tongue,
but vaguely, for these things will not translate.
I feel it in the cadence of your walk;
I am not one for whom moonlight can create,
you are.

And you will think the loosening of these thighs,
the sudden, urging whiteness of the throat
are muted but distantly a Poet cries.
and in your triumph you will fairly gloat.
~
Tonight the unplucked lemons almost gleam.
And with their legs, the crickets harmonize,
The trees are rustling an uncertain hymn,
and unseen birds contribute their trembling sighs,
And a Poet cries


~SAS~