Considering the microscopic
scales that let your silver-
green, shimmering leaves
retain water in desert sun,
your fruit so fraught with
energy it fueled clay lamps
in Greece, I feel more squat,
gnarled, tolerant of heat,
admire without envy
your thousand-year life span.
Winds of Italy
La Tramontana blows tra monte,
between mountains, female in a land
where wind, vento, is male.
La Bora bears down from the Adriatic,
makes harsh Slavic sounds. Dante
called il Grecale the slave wind
under which the whole peninsula
shivered. Il Levante dumps rain,
hails from Gibraltar, Lo Scirocco,
from the east in Greek,
brings waves of homicidal heat.
Farmers most loathe Il Libeccio,
the Libyan, which stirs up squalls,
stings skin like the Sahara sand.
Today we talk about babies.… Read more “Hilary Sideris and the Winds of Italy”