Stigliano

In this Tuscan July heat
we who are never idle
are having to learn
how to do nothing.

Siena’s high stone walls
trap warm air; even the shade
is baked hot, a stone oven.
Visits there exhaust us.

In Palazzo Stigliano
we alternate shaded seats
with indoor chill,
lurk by the fan.

Skin slick with factor 40,
we dress in loose linens,
go swimming to feel normal,
make simple meals.

Museums and galleries keep
their secrets for a cooler visit.
We sip icy wine, scan
sunflower fields from hilltop

watch the sun sink,
lay our backs against stone,
retreat into the shepherd’s house,
sleep under a single sheet.