Friday, April 5, 2013


Still, stilettoes of snow
shot from the sea,
the winter’s tail on the rampage,
night crossed by
whooshing swarms
of needles of ice.
But now it’s morning
and the huge window
is flooded with light
reminding of an already ripe
midday in the sky.
I look at the time, six a.m.,
just dawn, surprise.
Spring, isn’t it?
I go back under the sheets
gazing, on the window panes,
at spring’s sweet pains,
the longed-for cruelty
of buds and soft rain,
memory and desire’s blades.
And I am plunged,
sensing the umpteenth “nevertheless”,
into the sun’s weaving wishes,
our bright mess.


Dave King said...

the winter’s tail on the rampage,

It's been wagging a lot round here this year. Your poem struck home.

Tommaso Gervasutti said...

Dear David, thank you...

I can't get to the comment section in your blog. A security device or something asks for a word and number I should copy..I do that but it doesn't accept it.

Crafty Green Poet said...

Winter has a long tail this year, that's true