AQUAFACARO

AQUAFACARO

The familiar path out
of the village of
Aquafacaro - to reach
wheat fields - began at
the square - at the corner -
where men and boys gathered
to greet a rising sun -
peasants - their life
snuggled along a mountain -

Francisco crept up along the side
of his home, on a dusty path.

I would guess - Francisco
rode on his donkey's back,
and each day he began his
climb up a hill - he must
had stopped to gaze to his
right - to see a sun peek
out from the sea, as
another day changed the color
of his face, his life, from
dark purple to aqua marine.

I can see him - a peasant
covered in white cloth, a
hat on his head to ward off
the sun - staring from the
edge of the mountain to lights
fluttering, sparkling like
bubbles in colored water
above the sea - different
shades of pink... soft,
warmer - as a ball of fire
drinks purple water -
a hue - a brilliant shade
of aqua, turquoise - yet
pink wants to survive.

Francisco - must have stood
still – for a few minutes -

as his eyes moved left to
right - watching shades of
light - as life awakes in
his village - a few feet from
a path where his day began. . .

If he gazed further into a
sea of aqua - his heaven,
to see the Aeolian Island -
he may have dreamed one day
his life too – quite, beautiful -
like small pieces of land
surrounded by colors of a
painting...

Francisco - picked wheat,
filled sacks, and walked his
donkey to a stone hut - placed
wheat beneath shade.

Back and forth - a sun grew
larger in the sky.

At days end, Francisco, on his
donkey's back - repeated his
familiar path - down a dirt,
and dusty road -

I can picture him glancing - off
to his left, as a sun fell
into evening waters – orange -
violet - as if water painted
geraniums, hibiscus, oranges,
lemons - of this land.

Color soaking gradually into
a sea, tinting a sky - beautiful
shades of purple.

He fed his donkey - walked past
friends selling fish, almonds,
and olives - his smile slight -
home - to his wife, Santa. Now
he rests on his stoop - in front
of his home at the corner of a
square in his village until
morning lights a sea –
another daylight, another
glance over a mountain’s edge.

Nancy Duci Denofio
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