Umberto Piersanti
WINTER DAY
It snows, but it’s sleet,
indefinite, which only in places
whitens these low
hills, the sea rims them
and hems them with its grey blue,
now on the Cesane
the roe deer run
in the luminous fields,
the wolf sinks
his slender paws
into the dense whiteness,
the sumacs stand bowed
beneath the great weight,
silver the fir
high in the sky,
the blue-eyed forebear
is at the spring
and with her bare hand
cracks the ice,
fills the pitcher with water
the coldest,
then slowly makes her way
towards the house
THE SOUL
I had never understood
where the soul comes from among the thorns
but the soul is small, made of air,
it passes between the thorns and is not scratched