The food I ate in Italy deserves a litany of praise. An art unto itself, it satisfied so deeply I expected to rise each morning cured of hunger— forgetting hunger, like longing, is a ritual.
Drive as a passenger through Tuscany, and even if you squint or fall asleep, but catch brief glances through curtained blinks,
In the Venetian Accademia, I stood quietly before a study of flowers— their bends and curls precise, examined.
There was a proper Ladybug who loved to smile and stare at her beautiful reflection. She thought she was as rare and pretty as a wild rose - especially her spots.