by Anna Ciardullo Villapiana
I bathe at the well of living water,
dipping the pen
in ink of tears,
words, as crumbs, come up
from the well of feelings
and lips are parting
to the bread of your love.
The eyes open to the world,
following your light
and hands
resting on the chest in prayer.
I feel the pink of the cherry tree
being reborn on the canvas of the soul,
while I drink, drop by drop,
the wine of your words,
you fill the amphorae with ambrosia
and sandals with hope
looking from a distance
and waiting for those who remain still, barefoot,
on the roof of their fears.
