-from Lucca-

The slow romance begins at its table.

There of wine, of cheese and bread; a relevant cloth,

heritage cutlery shared in the swift

break of bread and skillful slice of cheese. 

Perfume of atmosphere.

The scent of everything wanders always through laughter.

Old people and young people at one in the moment.

The wine is expressed in the presence of its community,

gleaned from the vine twisting overhead

where they eat and drink in the afternoon light;

the table as old as the grandfather who listens and slices,

who eats and drinks, looking at everyone, momentarily lingering,

slump-shouldered, head down, eyes up, quietly assuming.

The table has the strength of its wood.

Wood cut from the crag of trees not far from where it sits.

There, the line of family continues etched in its living procedure 
from the rough,

hand-plane of the wood. 
Hearts, souls; its drops of blood.

The wine is poured from bottles whose history reflects 
the warmth of the wine inside them;

press of the grape once pulled from the wandering 
vine of the yard, intent on shading the long afternoon’s 

relaxed conversations.

I’ve been told the wealth of cheese was offered to the table 
by friends who lived down the road, a short distance in walking;

that the bread they broke was baked 
in the calm of the village morning; 
that they knew the baker well, 
through years of active friendship.


Then the communal breaking of bread and a wine's 

sweet sincerity.
A deft slice of cheese;


life's warm procedure, drawn at the table 
set in the yard of an afternoon's light;

the yard in the shade at the weave of its vine.

                                               for papa piccolo