Cardoso

Winding up and up,

the road snakes

to a village, unremarked

by the map,

and ends where Cardoso begins.

Sloping lanes are vivid

with blooms, summer bunting

left from the festa,

and Sangiovese vines,

pregnant with heavy

black grapes.

Screeching eagles

circle above a terracotta carpet,

old stone houses,

whose cool kitchens are

hewn into the living rock.

With the lengthening shade

we trained roses

into a garden archway,

and wove wisteria

through an invisible trellis.

Later, in the old Piazza,

by San Rocco’s shrine,

seven faithful ladies sat,

under bright fuchsia blossom,

and sang in celebration

of their saint.

In the cool kitchen, gathered

round the old wooden table,

we talked in reverent tones,

and with a cold Tuscan wine,

wound down.