Courtyard

In our Italian palazzo, there was a room,
a living room,
lit by the sun,
the others opened onto.

In this room, if you entered, cats might pass,
or visitors from the street. Neighbors, historians,
tri-lingual gypsies. Air and sound
flowed through it.
Insects, bees, and birds.

It rained, and came down
on the living ground,
on the clover
and on the stones,
on the potted plants, and the fountain
full of earth and flowers.

It came down on the pale pink roses, climbing up the wall.
And on the birds-of-paradise.

I wish
my house had a room like that.
My room has light, and books, and a red blanket,
but the flowers on the hook
are dry. I don't like strangers.

And from my bed,
I cannot see the sky.