September: Rome, from Mount Aventine

The infant sun kissed off the stoney Pine
Whose veins of bark climb up to scrape the sky.
The monk below will end his prayer in sigh
Then look upon the silhouette of Rome.

Within the walls awake the men so strung.
Before their eyes open, the world’s begun.
Their morning stretch reaches towards the sun—
Far short of Pine. Pine stretches farther still.

The Talking, Turning men scurry through town.
The ships set sail, never slowing down.
Men lose their voice vying for louder sound.
Pine sits above where no one speaks a word.

The infant sun becomes a humble gray.
Men lay their heads to cap another day.
So, too, the noise outside men’s windows fade,
But Pine still stands and will long after Rome.

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