A Shepherd in Italy

A shepherd, not porcelain,

Or painted in sensuous colors kneeling

By the Bassani,

Sat by the agency of a violet thistle on a real stone

The sight was a novelty

For in our lives, rarely

Anything real

Is the source of our emotions.

our mind supplies the non-existents

For us to rejoin to

With ardor, indifference, or sadness.

The shepherd's sun-hardened skin,

Much baked like ceramics,

Baffled the interpretations of our emotions,

We were not prepared

For reality;

But for a shepherd

Described coloratura through a soprano.

In a trill, he would bring upon a glistening white plate

Sugar cubes to be f to white horse in white barn,.

On the cliff side

We sat down below a yellow flowering thorny tree

Look at each other,

Became as baffled as when we first saw the shepherd.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated May/Jun 2000

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