|Jan/Feb 2014 Poetry|
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
March in Rome
The Villa Borghese, mornings with my wife,
Blue skies, soft wind: spring Rome shows me its best.
We climb Pizzuto, Sunday, and a looming storm
Hails heavy white on us below the peak.
A blinding bolt contests spring's surge of life;
Dour Apennines contest the sunlit West.
April's not delicate, a darker form
Lies back of the lilies, even Easter week.
Yet I prefer the mist up on the mountains
And walking toward cold grassy peaks in cloud
To strolls by dying elms around Rome fountains.
No need to make a choice, at least aloud,
And I'll stretch out in the sun by Palatine pines
Ignoring in and out of me death's signs.