dear precious and dexterous,

 

the house in the hills of cinque terre,

is resplendent in its alluring wealth.

it is orange,

and blends with the night’s cobalt waters

and ginger cliffs.

the saccharine smell of pastries

welcomes fresh palms.

 

the boy is foreign,

but native.

he was taught to endure the sorrow of love

and the joys of pain.

his father, a psychologist,

teaches him how to manipulate his mind.

his mother, a sculptor,

teaches him how to softly manipulate his hands.

the window he sits in overlooks the exquisite mediterranean.

the shutters never block the sun in the third season.

he sleeps with the window open,

not so the cool ocean breeze can embrace his intellect,

but to hear the boats and trains meet his village,

greet it with an excellent gesticulation.

the grandeur of understanding that people are living

while he is asleep,

is an influencer.

he is precocious,

manipulating the mind of the piano,

sculpting his hands softly,

as he was taught.

he composes music like he predecessors.

his father, a humblebrag

enjoys telling friends

that they are related to vivaldi,

the globally celebrated,

italian composer.

the boy sits in his window,

concocting masterpieces

hoping to find an inspiration

for his eclectic mind.

 

alas, the summer

has turned to winter.

the mediterranean has frozen,

the cobalt waters

now a pastel, almost white.

cinque terre is quiet,

unfrequented by tourists.

citizens no longer leave their colorful oases,

but the boy,

grieving in his cold loneliness,

leaves his window open,

sitting with his music,

breathing in the raw air.

 

weeks pass on,

the ice grows thicker,

and the boy sits by his window.

he chooses to close the shutters.

the boy hears a soft, melodious humming.

like the sweet sound of a hibernated bluebird.

he chooses to ignore this wholesome manistefation,

believing this trickery to represent the middle of winter.

 

the boy sits at a dimly lit desk,

the shutters still closed.

the humming is relentless,

continuing for five days.

 

he opens the shutters again.

the red hair he sees is vivaciously

contrasted with the alabaster snow.

 

the winter seemed to be glacial,

but the daily humming,

brought upon the sun,

and melted the ice.

 

the boy choose to introduce himself to the seducing voice.

 

he found the hair

in its vibrant state.

 

“ciao”

she turned around.

he felt life becoming a precious experience.

“ciao”

both americans in an italian flock.

oh, the way fate aids the ones

who have art engraved into their palms.  

their idle minds are synchronized in a steady pattern.

 

after their cardinal greetings,

the pair never spoke,

not with words,

but with the eyes that are obligated to vocalize passion and sensuality.

 

the hills of cinque terre were colorful once again.

tourists became acquainted with the aroma of conviviality.
 

the boy, and the girl with the red hair

found a harp

outside an old bakery.

he recalls the humming,

from her winsome lips.

her hands, small contrasted with her stature,

began to softly strum the harp.

a precocious boy and a dexterous girl,

with the winds of the hierarchical figures,

bringing upon peace and ambiguity

to a rather lackluster life.

 

sincerely,

the eyes from above