Day was fading. Patterns of clay
terracotta and stone merged with a mud-laced
Arno. They say
Dante's grave should rest in this place
engraved in the marble of a church
among frozen faces
that stitched together words, oil paint, rebirth.
Exiled by a family and papal command,
he threaded his way across Italian earth,
entwined mountains, lakes, stanzas,
underworlds into an interwoven net
of man's existence. A Renaissance can
change the patterns of a sunset,
the color of thread, the very tapestry
of humanity. It will set
the geometric string of history.
Let one man sew together cantos of three
lines, colored rhymes. Let me
enter its deep and wild weave.