Reading Romola as an e-book in a supernumerary end of work world
I am reminded of roses and salvias blooming on the hills of Fiesole
And in my garden. Eliot must have roamed the sedged fields of Tuscany
Gazing down on remnants of the past made present, in search of time
Found again in sameness, the way a soft ink traces a flush of pink
From page to screen, embellishing a desk with the loveliness of constancy
Growing from those breathing symbols carefully germinating all our histories.
Copyrighted by the author