Life moves at its own pace
or rather stands completely still
in a stone house high on a hill.
As tiny autos wind their way
switching back and forth across
the fields grow wild and forest with moss.
Wildblumen wave in whiskers
of grassy wheat curling back
toward the hilly expanse from wind
men mistrust the gusts
clip drying clothes to lines
the only straight segment anywhere.
The roads as lined with walls of stone
along tome stretches one alone
can pass to cross the stony bridge
the brook passes rushing beneath
as Italians in their daily way
pass us without pause or care.
We are truly visitors here,
but then why oh tell me why
does it feel so much like home?
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