The feast, it happened, of Saints Peter and Paul.
I’d called in early for a final look
at Saint Teresa in her cosy nook
before the tourists made a shopping mall
of this delightful church. My plans on stall
(for Mass was under way), I soon forsook
my statue contemplation, since the hook
the sermon dangled caught me in its thrall.
Those two great saints of Roman pedigree
had done their time in prison, unlike us,
but (said the priest) our new captivity
is of our own creation – reasoned, thus:
“The Prison of the Ego”. Yes, that’s me.
To add one word would be superfluous.
The feast, it happened, of Saints Peter and Paul.
I’d called in early, for a final look
at Saint Teresa in her cosy nook,
before the tourists made a shopping mall
of this delightful church. My plans on stall
(for Mass was under way), I soon forsook
my statue contemplation, since the hook
the sermon dangled caught me in its thrall.
Those two great saints of Roman pedigree
had done their time in prison, unlike us,
but (said the priest) our new captivity
is of our own creation – reasoned, thus:
“The Prison of the Ego”. Yes, that’s me.
To add one word would be superfluous.
The hills are full of life. The beauty of fresh fertile ground. What are these hills if not of life and lushness. It is a forest that is short and not barren. The land around is smooth with no growth. No spots of forest. The forest is in the center. Perfect strip on the land and perfect when full. If it were barren it would still be beautiful for life grows under the ground and rises to the top. Vittoria, I name these hills after you my love. Do not be mad for I see beauty in you and them.
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