Haibun

REFLECTIONS ON A VILLAGE IN ITALY   

The village is old, similar to the birthplace of my ancestors, one like many others that form my ethnic and cultural past.

rugged hills

shadow the stone houses—

tripping on cobbles

The family name is not here in this village, but that is not important.  The faces are the same.  My father's mother, frail, dressed in black, with white hair pulled tightly into a bun, is here.

searching for family—

the stooped old woman

with a distant smile

My mother's father, sturdy, full-chested, with a bushy mustache and sunburned skin on his bald head is here.  I see him again as a young man with curly black hair and strong muscles unloading barrels from a truck.  Other young men with their laughing mouths and casual swagger 

standing on the corners and in the coffee bars are my uncles and cousins.  The black-eyed women pushing fat olive skinned babies, the small boys in their short pants and dirty faces, the skinny girls with their faded dresses. All are my mothers and fathers, now young again.

                                                        a boy with big ears

skidding around a corner

a vespa spews fumes      

The images raise a few hackles on the back of my neck.  It is as if I have come home.

Stylus Poetry Journal