Woman of olives
You are the fragrance of all of Italy.
Hands made from cold clay and nutmeg
Steam linen at daylight;
Hips that hold the secrets of sailors
Disappear sideways
Into the night.
Woman of finery
Proud breasts stand at attention under the
White lace gown.
You gather your woolen robes, you
run through wet cobblestone streets
With tiny juniper mint feet.
Woman of butter
Of fresh baked bread and of sunrises
The light bursts through the citrus seed, speeds the
Juices, the currants, the berries.
Woman of solace
Many find comfort there at your door.
You lift a candle to myriad colors on old stone walls,
you guide the hopeless down the stair
with promises
never wavering.
Woman of Italy
You are the sweets and the dreams of the son.
You are the fields of wheat who gather to lend voice
to the wind
As it passes over
all the land.