In the Valley of the Magra

In June, above Pontrèmoli, high in the Lunigiana,
The pollen-colored chestnut blooms
sweep like a long cloth

Snapped open over the bunched tree tops
And up the mountain as far as the almost-alpine meadows.
At dusk, in the half-light, they appear
Like stars come through the roots of the great trees from another sky.
Or tears, with my glasses off.
Sometimes they seem like that Just as the light fades and the darkness darkens for good.

Or that’s the way I remember it when the afternoon thunderstorms
Tumble out of the Blue Ridge,
And distant bombardments muscle in across the line

Like God’s solitude or God’s shadow,
The loose consistency of mortar and river stone
Under my fingers where I leaned out
Over it all,
isolate farm lights
Starting to take the color on, the way I remember it . . . .