Petrichor

I want to be the woman who wakes up in your bed… 

somewhere in Italia, on an autumn day. 

The rain will have fallen; just enough to bring the petrichor out after a long dry summer, the microscopic atoms of ancient clay carried in the drops that burst fragrance through a cracked villa window. It overlooks the vineyard we would tend to, the soil we would nurture.  

There, the grapes ripen like our love; hung out to dry and tangled together on the vine, sweetened by time in the unforgiving sun – our rebellion.

It would be linens and warm skin, together. It would be creaking wood in the wind, and uncomplicated life. Rolling hills carry my voice, calling your name without hesitating, because you are my native language, the only one I’ve ever spoken fluently. Unlike Italian. You teach me that.

You teach me that with every “Buongiorno, amore mio.”  I drink it like caffe’ latte in small sips, swirled.  My eagerness would only increase your determination and eventually, it will stick. I would say, “Grazie mille, amore mio.”  One day it will be habit.

Conversation is my foreplay. We would talk sometimes passionately, sometimes softly, sometimes only with our eyes. You would speak to me your philosophy, I will challenge you with mine. 

Our sex would stop time.

The seasons would turn, the wine would mature as sunsets coursed over our union in time lapsed waves until we paused to see butterflies mating on a grape leaf.

Lips whisper lines of poetry, drawing me deeper until drunk on your soul.  

I can see you there now, alone, without me. My journey has already begun, first in thought. Next in reality.

You would wait. You would wait without stopping. 

And when you saw me, finally,

you would know.

 

~ Em C.

2.19.17

****

In the mood for some creative writing/prose.

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Lavender

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“What does the air in Italy smell like?”
she asked.

He, the American writer in Naples,
replied,

“…Of lavender
and damp ancient clay.”

She fell hard. His words made love
to her thirsty heart.

Their words together, an electric storm,

The kind of connection that begs
deliverance.

Two souls briefly converge,
realizing their limits.

She will never smell lavender again
without thinking of him, of Italy

and what could have been.

~ EC

1.9.17

Grapevine

There in the sun-kissed vineyard where the vines wind

around each other, like lovers in an eternal embrace,

I saw you resting your beautiful face on your cupped palm.

Honey gold sunset rays filled viscously sweet alluring air

lighting up your auburn hair with glowing warmth,

your gaze sent to distant lengths along the valley wide,

rolling with unstoppable depth to faraway times past.

The juice-swollen grapes hung heavy on the tangled vines,

waiting for their time that will come as it does each season.

You sighed with a look I won’t forget; if eyes could breathe

they would be how yours were, forlorn, wise, learned, glazed.

I wanted to ask you…but didn’t know how, so I let you tell me

in stares, knowing I could not know…was to know in itself…

The food on the table, fresh but historic, rich with life and love

and past, the aroma rising to senses numbed, awakening them.

If I could be that aroma to you, I would be all of the food in the world,

I would linger long on your tongue, change textures and scents,

just to keep you on me, me dissolving in you, forever waking you up.

You sighed as the butter melted in your mouth, a thought escaping

into the wind without a trail, I wanted to chase it down.

Slowly you turned your gaze to me, set the food down,

took your palm from your chin, and set it against my jaw.

With all you had to tell me with your eyes, I did not need to ask,

and the answer you gave with your mouth to mine,

was sweeter than any ripe grapevine…

 

“Grapevine” ~ AUDIO voice recording on SoundCloud

~ Emily Clapper

3.27.16