Lois Elaine Heckman

A dream, that’s what it has to be; unreal,
a simple girl like I am waking in
Milan to churches chorusing their peals
for Sunday peace. Soon I’ll be breaking in
my feeble language skills to plead
directions, eager to uncover all
the secrets hidden on the circling streets,
that history behind Medieval walls.

The mystery is gone: Milan’s now home,
and I am bound to it like trees to soil,
my roots imbibing learning from its loam,
to swell in sapience as they uncoil.

The knowledge hunger sets a magic spell
that’s chanted to the sorcery of bells.