poetry

Spring

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The Serchio River Valley
Is the central corridor
Of a giant roofless ruin.

Mountain spurs
Are perpendicular walls.
Valleys are rooms.

Vigilant, the village outposts
Perch on the edges of the rubble.

Cantilevered on the mountainsides
Is a labyrinth
Of gently winding roads,
From which I watch spring
Climb slowly to the top.

First, the cherries blaze,
Sconces scattered
On dark gray walls.

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