Snapshots

Chivalric rocks,
crag after crag, stabbing
the royal blue Mediterranean
for the love of Amalfi,
a nymph lost on the road to God,
Sentiero Degli Dei.

One tangible keepsake on my lap,
a bottle of liquore limoncello,
my victory, in spite of rebellious feet.

Impressions fall haphazardly,
to shift-shape in memory after landing,
and nerves collide on hairpin bends
on the way back to Hotel Onda Verde.

Over the inlet,
a town square stares back with pride
at clouds streaking in
feathery stretches,
letting the sun’s rays cut through,
with scalpel-like precision,
to pour over
the crimson fuchsia hanging
from a balcony.

Somebody lives there
in details and nuances.
A tiny tot, with lineage of native breezes,
his eyes filled with the shiny tour bus,
waves;
a little form pulsing
against the iron railing‘s curlicue,
his senses awhirl, flying free,
like hope seeding for spring.
The voice in him is all he needs.

Sometimes,
a tender thing happens
on the road.