Ruminating On My Death Following My Return From Italy,Beth Rolingson

In the space of a week
The raven has tapped thrice on my window.
And three times has the owl flown across my daytime landscape
Since I emerged
From the land of myth and art,
Mythic art.
I want that veil of protection,
Those basilicas,
Those golden domes,
To shield me.
The drama frozen in icy white marble;
Pinned down in paint like a butterfly in the collection of an entomologist.
I can’t stop this messy slide into the other side though,
The side from which there is no return.
Renaissance visions of heaven and hell
Perforate my dreams
Become tableaus with real blue and green tailed-devils
Grabbing the innocents.
I want to walk down quiet columned corridors
That open onto sunny courtyards
Filled with roses or cypress.