Firenze With My Eyes

The terracotta reds of the Duomo, the marinara, the clogs, the tramezzino, the apartment couch, the old shopkeeper’s cheeks. 

There is an unabashed posture about them, stark and arresting, as they flash between a pigeon's restless wings. 

The fervent oranges of the jute rugs, the SACI logo, the leather bags, the peppers, the Mobike, the toddler’s swirling hair.

They buzz like little bees under the buttery sun, swollen with energy and pride.

The bright yellows of the walls, the young sunflowers, the pasta, the sunshine, the fresco paint, the drunk’s toothy grin.

They fill you up with a placid warmth, softly but surely.

The fresh greens of the comforter, the Farmacia cross, the doodle journal, the wax crayons, the local vegetables, the jealous lover’s heart.

They’re a viewer’s delight in their refreshingness, youthfulness, playfulness and safety.

The cosmic blues of the dusky skies, the slow river, the hard-case luggage, the pressed scarves, the Messenger icon, the tourist’s new umbrella.

The curious comfort they bring calms your weary eyes and stiff knees. 

The deep indigos of the gelato, the paint tubes, the electric buses, the potted plants, the sewing thread, the woven sweater.

They make friends with their surroundings, shuffling into motion and fitting into structure. 

The heady violets of the kitchen mug, the potpourri sachet, the onion rings, the panini tokens, the porcelain vase, the curled eyelashes. 

They seduce like rubies buried beneath a rugged terrain.