Draft of a Switzerland trip report

Augusta Raurica

White rattles on curled leaves. Behind the hedges
worn pediments and cold gravestones display
abbreviated Latin, losing edges
and meaning under snow. Here, one last thing?
We stop to touch and look at rocks that told
their texts, though I just read what surfaces say,
not messages: the hand holds only cold,
the eye sees weather echo weathering.
I stamp my feet, breathe clouds, and puzzle while
her camera captures the current state of stone.
Across the road, a temple falls to gray.
Our looks agree: we go--the storm will stay.
With one last picture of a freezing tile,
we leave in ruins what the snow has sown.


( Some commentary )

---L.