Blonde thimbles of sunlight pour onto and speckle the faded terra-cotta roofs, the play of light on hidden scars, the song with unremembered lyrics.
Four towels draped on the railing of a terrace to air-dry. Two green, one blue, one red.
The towels feel their monotony broken when a warm, blossom-infused breeze fingers the towels, forcing them to dance, to ruffle, seizures of a short-lived flirtation.
At the same time, a delicate orgy of bright pink hibiscus petals are picked up and scattered across the cobbled stones.
The breeze finishes, ending the tryst.
The towels flatten, fall out of love.
The petals rest vagrantly. And dream, in color, of haiku frontiers.
Viola tries to walk even slower on the asymmetry of cobblestone, hoping to feel the sky beneath the ground, its motherlode a ballad on the lips of the universe, here, now.