Anghiari is medieval, a sleeve sloping down br A steep hill, suddenly sweeping out br To the edge of a cliff, and dwindling. br But far up the mountain, behind the town, br We too were swept out, out by the wind, br Alone with the Tuscan grass. br br Wind had been blowing across the hills br For days, and everything now was graying gold br With dust, everything we saw, even br Some small children scampering along a road, br Twittering Italian to a small caged bird. br br We sat beside them to rest in some brushwood, br And I leaned down to rinse the dust from my face. br br I found the spider web there, whose hinges br Reeled heavily and crazily with the dust, br Whole mounds and cemeteries of it, sagging br And scattering shadows among shells and wings. br And then she stepped into the center of air br Slender and fastidious, the golden hair br Of daylight along her shoulders, she poised there, br While ruins crumbled on every side of her. br Free of the dust, as though a moment before br She had stepped inside the earth, to bathe herself. br br I gazed, close to her, till at last she stepped br Away in her own good time. br br Many men br Have searched all over Tuscany and never found br What I found there, the heart of the light br Itself shelled and leaved, balancing br On filaments themselves falling. The secret br Of this journey is to let the wind br Blow its dust all over your body, br To let it go on blowing, to step lightly, lightly br All the way through your ruins, and not to lose br Any sleep over the dead, who surely br Will bury their own, don't worry.