Tuscany
Christine Tsen
As the Aria begins to unfold
tucked quietly within creases of cotton and time
I relive how motorbikes sliced through gauzed sleep
bisecting my dreams.
I remember nuancing along
singing endless verses of opera
on my homage to blurry art
crystal-lined through tears of awe
And my continuous molten gelato cones
innuendos of hazelnut or pistachio
dripping through stolen time
achieving a disarray of melted ache for what I truly longed
which was You
in each of Florence’s glorious art-soaked squares –
and it was I
who ran dancing through Boboli Gardens
and strode along the Arno yearning for the Ring –
I gaze backwards to being perched on knees in the Duomo
divine angels singing an unabashed “Chi il bel Sogno di Doretta”
as I held so tightly to my prayers
ondering if I could ascend into the music
to the holy cries above outlined in petticoats of gold.
And before the high-laced pain
in each of life’s new forward-march steps without you
hold dear my lush young love
waiting with corsage, expectant eyes in Tuscan dreams
suspended within the staves of Puccini.
Christine Tsen
As the Aria begins to unfold
tucked quietly within creases of cotton and time
I relive how motorbikes sliced through gauzed sleep
bisecting my dreams.
I remember nuancing along
singing endless verses of opera
on my homage to blurry art
crystal-lined through tears of awe
And my continuous molten gelato cones
innuendos of hazelnut or pistachio
dripping through stolen time
achieving a disarray of melted ache for what I truly longed
which was You
in each of Florence’s glorious art-soaked squares –
and it was I
who ran dancing through Boboli Gardens
and strode along the Arno yearning for the Ring –
I gaze backwards to being perched on knees in the Duomo
divine angels singing an unabashed “Chi il bel Sogno di Doretta”
as I held so tightly to my prayers
ondering if I could ascend into the music
to the holy cries above outlined in petticoats of gold.
And before the high-laced pain
in each of life’s new forward-march steps without you
hold dear my lush young love
waiting with corsage, expectant eyes in Tuscan dreams
suspended within the staves of Puccini.