By Ronni Miller
Sarasota Branch
A slice of melone draped in
Parma prosciutto
laid on a china plate
placed on a clothed table
beside a glass of Chianti
from the vineyard below the
Tuscan villa entices me.
Sips of tangy Chianti meld with sweet and salty
chewed and swallowed buzz my head
prepare it for the tangled spaghetti
dotted with tiny clams
imported from the Veneto,
on the journey through dinner
as the sun sets behind the hills.
I devour the rabbit, mistaken for chicken
sautéed in wine nudged against
roasted potatoes sprinkled with rosemary
picked from the terrace
while conversation flows about
the walk up the dirt road from the villa
that morning to the 10th century church service.
“So full” words groan about me
I, undaunted, anticipate dessert
attached to chocolate scent
remembered from afternoon
kitchen odors delight delayed by frutta:
peaches and pears picked from the orchard
snuggled into the bowl set before us.
Slice of dark chocolate mouse cake arrives
squiggled with raspberry sauce
slices of strawberry nestled against it.
Creamy texture slides past my lips and throat.
I’m falling in love. Haven’t I already
from the wine, view and life
on a summer terrace in Italy?