Walking Home

The rolling tram drowns out the memory of gaggling tourists cooing their awesomes on the sun-baked upper levels of the Colosseum.

From this sunny corner, I cannot see the pool of shade under the umbrella pines beside the court in the orchard of the Villa Borghese.

From these grey tiles, I cannot see the ancient jumbled villages bobbing on the golden sea of Umbria and Tuscany.

From my smooth stoop, I cannot see the heavy pines, the Alps rising in serrated panorama and the ferry on the deep blue to Luzern.

Here is my home. The door is mine to open. In or out.

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