Pompeii

If I could be an artisan I would be happy
   with a pile of colored tiles the size of fingernails.
I would choose a floor in a villa overlooking
   the sea, atop a promontory jutting into the bay.
Chalk cliffs the color of the mortar that will be
   my glue, that which calls to the pile of tiles.
Bits of the faces of a mother and her children,
   pieces of emotion forming, the line of recline
the matriarch rests upon, an upholstered bench,
   as she watches the abandon of rose'd cheeks.
There would be an arched doorway open to the blue
   and settled sky with feathered clouds on wind.
I shall break stones into pebbles, still,
   to make toes and graceful fingers,
glass for the eyes, thick but translucent,
   from bottles of spirits waiting for light sparkling.
There shall be delicate orchids and a jasmine
   bush fond with bloom, as difficult to conjure
as the pensive, thoughtful gaze of the mother
   embraced by the light and breeze of the bay.
Her perfumed hair lifting with the rolling surf
   and the laughter of the children at her feet.
Fixing the center of her heart at a far away
   sail driven in the direction of her longing,
after all the journeys and landings to where
   her dancing, singing youth still trembles in his arms.

I would like to be an artisan of mosaics
   and gather the tiles of my life with mortar onto stone.

p.m.