The villa of Petrarch sits on a hill Above the rapids tumbling through the rocks. It's ruins now--the broken stones are clocks That tick much faster than his poems will. We fabricate his home to hold it still While his verse blossoms like deep purple stocks And his rhymes gather like ascending flocks-- We neither need his home nor feathered quill. We cannot touch the love in broken stones, And yet, we cannot help but seek them out-- We hope to find the magic of their art Embedded in their ruins, scattered bones. We're certain if we find ourselves in drought An icon of them will make it depart.
Troy Camplin is a poet, playwright, and independent scholar living in Richardson, TX. With his B.A. in recombinant gene technology, Master's in English, and Ph.D. in the Humanities, the majority of his scholarly work is naturally on economics. He writes for Medium, has a poetry blog at http://troycamplinpoetry.blogspot.com, and has plays available at New Play Exchange