For today's prompt, write an evening poem. My initial thought is that this poem would somehow involve the night, but upon further reflection, I guess it could be about evening things up or something.
Montecastello
When I was young and in Italy
a fellow painter girl told me
at the dance in the piazza that I was
crepuscular.
What a strange word, I thought.
But more, how did she know.
In the dawning hours I had dreamt
- maybe - of Etruscan tombs and the birds and grapes
of their afterlife
and water of mine
filling the chambers
or brushes or ice
or something but no doubt
the pigeon hum on the tiled roof
finally faded to sleep and its tapestry
- its collasal craftsman.
weaving sticks and concepts
fears and stairwells
brushes and ice
A shell of a person most of the day
- most days
Much of the night too
- most nights
But in the turning hours
the sea of my love
spills all around the world.
No one could be happier.
The first breeze of evening.
The old man and the accordian.
Two old neighbors on the piazza
Umbria.
Cicada in the grass
and me, tanned and alive,
moving past the cypress.
Impossible not to dance.
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