As If Nestled Within Grace

Three years ago he could not
have foreseen this:
billowing cream
of curtain,
summer’s dream,
him poking his head
through the window,
seeing a caterpillar of children
winding their way down
an almost blinding
white road
toward the village
and the hills.
He was getting to know them,
the children and hills,
two children waving back at him,
complementing the turquoise
lapping loquacious below.

Three years ago he could not
have foreseen the slightest
departure from his pit
and ill health
and meagre prospects
all falling
within the circumference
of his beloved’s passing.
It stretched and stretched:
confusion had for its horizon
more confusion
and no wisdom nor willpower
could be referenced in the birth
of this joyous hour.
How this happened wasn’t known.
Slowly, imperceptibly –
as if nestled within grace –
the stretch of wretchedness and monotone
and confusion was outgrown…

Or perhaps it all
found its way transmuted,
etched itself as fleece
on the turquoise
or billowed
reborn as wind,
reborn as the Italian countryside,
as his students’ affections,
and gleaming glances
of a local Italian beauty.

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