and when spring was just
peeking around the corner,
they packed just a few belongings and,
on a whim, left for that Tuscan city.
Those cobble-stoned sidewalks,
the architectural mementos,
the religious relics and artistic masteries –
the entire valley seemed nestled between
the pages of a history book, cracked open
by an eagerly early Mediterranean breeze.
almost entirely incognito, they mingled
with the locals, roamed through vineyards,
strolled through orchards of olives, rosemary, lavender, pines.
each sunset, each sip, sat serenely still in time.
and upon their return,
as a new season was about to begin
for them back home as well,
they wondered about the future,
even the present of that place.
when the glory of the past
gets captured behind museal glass?
the promise of modernity
relies on young folks running toward the horizon,
still unsure if and how they’ll balance on it
but utterly excited to get there.
where, in this place,
do new dreams get forged?
they’ll get dented right away
if old, lose shingles keep smashing down.
seems as though the old ateliers
need a new christening.