and a poem from Italy's Yellow Semi Colon Pages 07.10 ...

Boccaccio’s Ghost

It’s not late, or at least

Not very—a full harvest

Moon, in all her peach

Glory has barely crested

The horizon—but, as I

Begin to cruise the smaller

Passageways up here

I know he walks with me;

Every evening at some point

I feel his presence as if,

Like an old friend, he has

Just stepped from his house

And, matching his steps to mine

Begins to stroll also

In a tenth century village

There are many nooks

And darkened spaces,

Many spirits for that matter

But perhaps you only meet

The one most helpful to you

I have come here

With a crisis of faith of sorts

Oh no—not a religious crisis;

I long ago learned to let that go

At least, for the most part

No, here, to this medieval village

High atop one of Tuscany’s

Famed hills, steeped deeply

In the intoxicating scent

Of olive groves, their fruit ripe

To the point of picking,

I’ve brought my indecision

About my creativity

Toted along like battered baggage

I have carried these questions

Everywhere without understanding

I was waiting for the perfect

Place to lay my burden down

And unzip this luggage

Letting my life questions

Tumble about freely

Wondering whether

I should stay the course,

Maintain whatever

Status quo it is I seem

To have set for myself

When oft’ I find I am

Despairing of its ever

Being the right action for me

This writing thing I do

I wasn’t here but several nights

Before Giovanni Boccaccio

Began to walk with me,

At first in companionable silence

Then, an occasional comment

About his own doubts

While writing the Decameron
He thought he knew in his heart

It was the right thing to do

But still, doubts plagued him

Even unto his death ...

Even then

I find myself musing about

This great writer’s uncertainties

And wonder at them

With something akin to shock

How was it

He did not know,

I wonder, how amazing

His ideas were—were?

Are ...

Even now

After a week or so

of listening to me moan

Boccaccio is chuckling

in the dusk

He knows I will come

To comprehend;

I will continue

to write without ever

knowing if it is great

Or even good work

And that,

The writing is the thing

He promises me it will

Not always seem enough

But ultimately?

It will be ...

It will.

S.E.Ingraham©