The Truth of Time

Home, and your clock is all out of time.
Part of you, likely the best of you,
still in Venice, walking streets renodolent
with the smell of small bakeries and strong coffee.

A certain sense of decay pervades this place
more home than home. Decay and beauty,
an understanding with time. that allows the layers
to show.

Time has a different meaning,
spent more in conversations and less
in pursuit. There is no need for pursuit.
There are flowers in the window,
Lovers sleeping late in the morning,
cobblestones to walk. Favorite cafes
you have not discovered yet.

And time. The truth of it.

About this poem.

I am back from a couple of weeks in Italy. Much of it (never enough) in Venice. My inner clock has not adjusted yet. Neither has my inner heart.

Apologies, but my writing, photographs, and art will likely be colored by the journey for a few weeks as I sort through it all. Travel, at its best, changes us. Sometimes it takes a while to understand how, and what you want to do with that change.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom