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Rain falls unheard, caw
of bird, cold, beyond window--
Garbatella
wakes
Mussolini’s war,
still echoing in winter’s
..
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Midday, a short walk across the Ponte Sisto
to the place known as Field of
Flowers.
Couples mill about, point at
things, then purchase
..
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This winter
Rome's streets
are filled:
people, potted trees,
dried
wreaths--all On Sale.
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Ashes of the past
buried amongst flowerbeds,
frostless roots that feed.
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Buildings surround me
and the magnolia trees
in Trastevere.
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Strips of cold plastic
bags grace the dead trees below
the Ponte Sisto.
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This winter is warm.
A large brown dog sleeps soundly
on cobblestoned grass.
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Taking my glassesoff, I can see Rome at once,beautiful and fragile.
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Sunlight dances on
the blades of grass pushing through--
Mind the cobblestones!
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My breath visible,
even the magnolia leaves
shudder in the wind.
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