Orvieto, Volterra, San Gimignano, Erice (with its
remains of Phoenician walls and long-vanished temple of Aphrodite) . . . the Italian hilltowns call to me in a language I was dreaming before I was born.
The medieval towers that still stand, with bells old or mute now, call my name clearly, sweetly, and I answer without having to think twice. Here I am.
These are all hometowns of the heart; the kind of strength that comes from climbing, looking up, finding the sky in reach, the mountains further still, and blue, and almost mine—the way love makes things. Birds, cathedrals, the curve overhead of a stone arch. The flicker that is lizard on a sun-warmed wall.
The medieval towers that still stand, with bells old or mute now, call my name clearly, sweetly, and I answer without having to think twice. Here I am.
These are all hometowns of the heart; the kind of strength that comes from climbing, looking up, finding the sky in reach, the mountains further still, and blue, and almost mine—the way love makes things. Birds, cathedrals, the curve overhead of a stone arch. The flicker that is lizard on a sun-warmed wall.
image: Yehuda Edri
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