Echos in the Courtyard
Around the corner, off the street, a doorway,
an almost arch leading to a courtyard.
Flowers in the windows. A place suddenly silent
in the center of the city.
You are a tourist.
Everywhere you go, you are a tourist.
A capturer of images and stories
and daydreams real as glass,
never quite a native, content to be close,
raising toasts of dark roast, to sing gentle harmony
and hear it echo in the courtyards
with no one to listen.
About this poem
And when I am gone, will it have made a difference? To a few, perhaps, but deeply. I don’t dwell on it. I am, after all, content.
The picture was taken in Venice.