The Val d’Orcia, Terre di Siena
after the wheat is harvested and the fields plowed,
and the grapes are ready to be taken from the rusty vines.
A man not young,
not quite old,
strong as an oak;
a soldier brown and dusty.
He’s laid down his foes,
though merciful in command,
and his blood and theirs
have purpled his drab clothes.
Now at rest
between eternal campaigns,
he yearns for a woman,
a woman bare and clean,
to bend over him
and kiss him with gentleness, and
cover him with her moisture
until they blend
man and woman
earth and sky.