In the afternoon, we three stepped out
into the golden Tuscan bright–
warming the soft fabric of flowered dresses.
We played in ancient pig pens,
stone ruins accustomed to swine
made perfect small forts for our short statures.
Then off to the olive grove
where distorted branches shaped
our own kingdoms –content to dig,
discovering the luminance of the fertile dirt.
Above our heads, the glowing fruit grew
its cloying fragrance filled every breath we breathed
enveloping us in a green and gold haven.
If we three went back tomorrow
our heads would protrude from those once-sovereign spaces
like bubbling warts on smooth skin
and the winter-white sun would stare.