Writing as an act of gardening...

I had the good fortune to live in Pienza, Italy from 1990-1993. I was working at a family-owned bed&breakfast in the Tuscan hillside. I began to write a collection of poems during my experience there. I have chosen this writing below because of the correlation that I find between the Tuscan farmers and the work they perform, and the act of writing;



The Work of Hand
(for Fosco, Alba and Serafino)

The difficult to let it go.
To set it down, this task of hand,
and then leave it–
to be.

As the gardino planted each primavera
that is tended to, mended to,
all summer’s long.

The contadino spreads his seeds,
creates his patterned plots,
then cleans his lines, weeds his rows.

To make the delicious from the ordinary,
he will say; there are myriad,
myriad anonymous hours that pass

alone.
In this silence, in this sound of life,
the poet, solitary– with pen and paper–

plays the part of a gardener;
honing, hoeing, honing, hoeing...
for he is the maker-responsible

solely,
for the succor in his fruits.