Rolling green hills,
A winding narrow road,
Telephone poles,
Pass my window.
The wire trails up,
Then down,
Then down again.
A stork nests,
On the pole,
Down the road,
From my favorite place.

A small stucco building,
Withered and old,
Patched, yet beautiful,
A large balcony,
The Mediterranean sun.

Grapevines dangle their wares,
Over the shaded porch,
A long wooden table,
Laden with food,
Smells wafting through,
The green sunlight,
That filters through
The giant leaves.

A scraggly meadow,
Shaded by
The crooked apple,
The patch of dirt,
And the patches of grass.

A small little room,
At the top of the stairs,
A dresser drawer,
Full of old torn magazines.
A faded quilt,
In a room full of

A well trodden path
Leads to a common well,
The path hard,
& beaten,
The water cool,
& sweet.
The Mediterranean sun,
Smiles down
At its child.
A child of the sun.