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Writer

I really envy those who can write beautifully (and interestingly).
.
.
How I wish I am a writer.



Dear Mom.

It's market day in Cortona.

The piazza is an ongoing party,and everyone is invited.

Clichés converge at this navel of the world.

You almost want to laugh,

but you can't help feeling these Italians know more

about having fun than we do.

I eat a hot grape from the market,

and the violet sweetness breaks open in my mouth.

It even smells purple.

I wish I could stay longer, but the bell reminds me of time.

"Ding-dang-dong, " the bell says, instead of "ding-dong. "

-I wish you were here.

-Love... (c)
-(Under The Tuscan Sun)

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