The road dissolves into dust and cypress,
and the air softens, tasting of rosemary and baked earth.
Here, the hills do not rise like jagged teeth
but roll like amber waves,
stitched together by ancient rows of stone and vine.
We trade the marble roar of the city
for the quiet weight of golden afternoons.
A scooter hums down a ribbon of white gravel,
vanishing behind a ridge of olive trees
whose silver leaves turn inside out in the breeze.
In the piazza of a hill town untouched by centuries,
church bells ripple through the heavy heat,
landing softly on terracotta roofs and wooden shutters.
A glass of Chianti catches the declining sun deep, dark garnet, holding the memory of the slope it grew upon.
The evening settles like a warm linen cloth,
bringing the scent of woodsmoke and sage.
Time loses its sharp corners here;
it stretches across the valley,
slow and deep as the river winding toward the sea.
