I rest on Via del Corso stones
Cold water finds my watermark zones
My script curls tight like Rosa canina
Until the barista wakes the machine
Wet vellum on the cold cobblestones
I hold a woodland in my bones
Rain translates each Latin phrase
Until the city starts its days
The fountain drips on Piazza Navona
My edges fray like dry corona
A note on germination rates
Written before the garden gates
Wet vellum on the cold cobblestones
I hold a woodland in my bones
Rain translates each Latin phrase
Until the city starts its days
A pigeon walks my opening lines
His feet press deep like vine designs
The ink remembers root and shoot
Even when the paper's mute
Wet vellum on the cold cobblestones
I hold a woodland in my bones
Rain translates each Latin phrase
Until the city starts its days
The baker opens heavy wooden doors
Flour dust settles on my pores
I feel the warmth of rising dough
But rain still writes where water flows
When the postman folds me in his sack
The Latin names will travel back
To greenhouse glass and heating mat
Where seeds awake from paper chat
The scooter carries me through morning mist
The ink stays wet, the roots persist
A botanist will read my script
And plant the words where light is dipped
Wet vellum on the cold cobblestones
I hold a woodland in my bones
Rain translates each Latin phrase
Until the city starts its days
Sodden scroll finds sunlit ways
Delivered to the greenhouse door
I bloom where I was sent before
