Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Perfect form

Perfect form.
Perfect surface.
Perfect moment.
Standing there
in stillness
he and I.
Both waiting
I could have stayed with him
until all the others left
the noisy admirers,
the dutiful,
until we were alone together;
until we were locked up in darkness.
Forever.

But it seems that
despite his eternal gaze,
his pure white skin,
his immobile stance--
stone resting in his hand,
the strap cast over his shoulder and back--
his ever ready watchfulness
his confidence and clear intent,
that I am the one
who is actually alive;
I am the one who is breathing.
I am the one who must move.
Not so. David.

What have I learned about Italy?

(Chaperoning 9 Ninth graders for 10 days in Italy)

We were an amoeba.
A group of cells--
living and breathing
stretching and pulling this way and that--
usually with imagined purpose
doing what we were designed to do:
seeking nourishment
like krill in a whale’s bale.
We were a messy lot.
We came, we saw, we conquered nothing.

The Italian peninsula is big and hilly--
full of stones and grass and trees
and cities rich with reminders
of those who came before.
It has sought to tell their stories
of discontent and relief;
of desires of family;
of struggle and victory;
All the stories.
It has done rather well at that.

It is a good thing we were together--
our hearts and minds
willing to see, to take in.
Busy with picture taking and
memorizing tableaus
of our foolishness,
whether I realized it or not,
our amoeba was seeking joy
and joy we received.
Ciao Bella!