Can I offer an olive branch to you? Will you reach toward me and take it from my fingers - that are cold and missing you? Colours fade and linger, nuance of ripeness, some are steadier than others in taste and balance. I know my limitations; they are many. I know also of my absence and how it tore at you. I hope you see me standing here.
Sunday, July 8, 2018
Friday, December 6, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
We stood in silence looking out over the piazza, the minutes walking ahead of us in total disregard for our unwillingness to have them go.
And then the station, a whistle, and the blur of fields.
I walk my life like streets of foreign cities. Always walking, never staying, always searching. I did not lie: the day will come when unexpectedly you see my form in the distance.
Wait for me, Italy.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
There is a place I visit when I am in Italy where "smiles are free".
It is a place where they remember you after a month's absence; they see you walk in, clear off your favorite table, and serve up your cocktail of choice - all the while bantering together with smiles that are free.
And what if love were free. And what if peace of mind were free.
If hugs, and acceptance, and tolerance, and hope ... were all free.
If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er. a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…
If you’re a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
In Venice I found the street on which I have always lived.
Every time I travel somewhere, I walk for hours and hours a day; through ancient cities, down avenues, over cobbly streets, I walk. And eventually my feet take me home again. But there is always that nagging, somewhat surreal but familiar, feeling that I am on a journey and always have been; that I have not yet found the place where I am meant to go.
Perhaps I live on Passion Street. Not three weeks ago someone said to me, "Please stop living so passionately!" My eldest curled her toes. After all, we are now two to walk the streets to somewhere, feeling not unlike ants that touch noses and then walk on, only to touch again later. It is our fate, perhaps, our destiny.
My street is Passion Street. No, it is Calle de la Passion.
I shall leave my shoes by the front door.