BALSAMIC SCARS

Dear Florence, 

I pour balsamic into an olive oil dish 

& watch it take shapes similar to small scars.

The bottle of Sangiovese hits my lips, 

painting them each red the way an artist would give his last breath to paint this city. 

Tears hang tightly onto my face 

like the row of pastel buildings 

running parallel to Ponte Vecchio..

I now see clear in all your river mirrors, 

bitter fears I once set sail. 

Silently searching for solace,

I head towards a place of 

Roman Gods,

hoping to find strength and soloution in their 

stares of stone.

To this day I am unsure how, 

but the moss covered men, women, and mammal spoke 

volumes to my unsettled heart. 

Here, I began to understand the unbearable 

pain of loss and the darkness that may follow.

And there, 

in the Boboli Gardens of Florence 

my despair was overcome by the panacean power of light.