Quanto Caldo è Il Sole?

This is for you and the way your aged

fingers tapped the steering wheel,

and the wink in the review mirror.

This is for you and the faded palm leaves

twisted on a Sunday.

For the all the kernels popped and paper napkins

turned into bowls.

And the presents that were wrapped too tight.

This is for you and your deep, melodious

rumbling of Italian words.

For the hanging strands of flour and egg

drying on the spindles of unfinished wood.

This is for you and your roses,

for their yellow petals, curled

at their edges

and their unpicked stems.

This is for you.

And the hands that held hers,

and kneaded the dough.

And for your quick release.