Gelato

limone

nocciola

tiramisù

vaniglia

cioccolata

fragola

noce di cocco

pesca

pistàcchio

These are the flavors of gelato

offered in a little shop

off the Piazza Emilio Chanoux

before we walk to the bus stop

along the ruined Roman walls

to find the bus to take us

to the squeduct.

I can’t be wooed by gelato today,

not even this, though as a child

I did run off one Saturday morning

to follow—irresistibly—the bell

of the ice-cream cart.

What draws me

is more complicated now.

I’ve seen autumn come

suddenly to the mountains;

seen the millenium turn.

I’ve heard echoing shots

late in the afternoon, somewhere

in the deep woods above the inn,

caught glimpses of movement

in the upper windows of the old

stone houses

up beyond the red clay tennis court,

unseen watchers looking out.

What do they see that I cannot?

Today I feel lucky, graced by

the lavish colors of the gelato

passed in the little square,

as if I might

get finally to the heart of things,

catching the local bus that takes us

with the villagers from market

on the unnamed mountain road

to the aqueduct.

The Pont d’Ael in its remote valley,

one of the aqueducts

that carries water down

from snow melt to fountains

in order for our sake,

as Rilke says, to arrive.

—Christie