THE PIZZA

Upon a white moon
kneaded with water and flour,
put on a little kiss of tomatoes
red as the mouth of Vesuvio;
shed on a grain of oil
shining gold from the sun’s land;
give it the smell of basil
fresh and charmed as is the breeze in May.
This mixture of flavour and fantasy 
bake it at the sparkles of the wood
and it becomes a poem.