Ostia (-16 Days-)

Even the air will taste different in our mouths,
and feel different as it plays with our hair along
the coast of the Mediterranean, with its thin
shore lines, wide only as a cobblestone path way, created
by a proud sea that desires the space
reserved for dry sand, and broken seashells, and
rescued bottles with messages of deep salt,
worn glass.
The sun will feel different on our bare arms
and kiss our brows more gently, leaving faint
traces of its touch, and painless color like
sand, like the old copper pennies
along our American skin that is stained with rush,
haste, not enough time. When here,
they have more than enough hours offered in a single
day, as each one slips slowly by, with leisure,
with gratitude for the undemanding.