Our meal offers us a clue: Polenta porcini
suggests an absence
of wheat, the pause of melody until
the bow draws it out of another shapely body.
Tortellini, like a private balcony
filled with flowers, is translated only by those
who admire as well as woo. The grille is a window
into Palazzo courtyards where ancient
hysteria climbs and then sighs. Each flake
of parmesan like shavings we plane
from what we make.
It's really in the asking and not the taking
from the wood, the word. Inviting
rather than demanding. Our questions
anticipate both cobblestone and smooth marble.
The smell of smoke and peaches. But when
the pieces fit, there is no language, no hidden
note. Just silence. Then music
asking more and more from us,
again and again. And again.
-- Christine Hemp