Giovanni Boccaccio, 1313-1375
In air arranged by bees, the honied sting
Stuck to Boccaccio, made him scratch his life
And bleed it on a page, gold-leafed labor
Producing volumes: prose, winged verse, critiques.
With The Decameron, mortality
Realized it had to leave this B alone.
Like Calandrino--third tale, the eighth day--
"Mouth hunter" never would just disappear.
One hundred stories: Florentine dessert
Preserved by honey's words uncombed to soothe
Plague-driven years. His other work expired,
Stung by unmanaged death, reputation
No richer for the weight of its sweet breadth.
Author: LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Photo: Provenance Online Project
0 Comments