Freshly baked bread with a drizzle of extra virgin –

olives harvested by my father this past season.

Only three bottles left in the cellar.

It spills into the nooks of the toasted sourdough –

focaccia – offspring of its mother, bound in glass

and kept tepid on my counter.

Fall’s breeze fuses with the oil’s fragrance – carries

aromas of cut grass, apples, and cinnamon in it.

The hills of Marche in my kitchen.

He didn’t visit often, – I only made it back twice –

but he sent a heartfelt note in every shipment.

If only I could tell him I miss him.