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!