Grandmothers poem
In the silence of winter
A branch cracks.
Even the birds are flying away.
I remain still.
It is not the aroma of fresh grass
That I smell:
It’s getting cold,
I am not moving.
When the children begin to return home
I carry their shrieks of life
Foreshadowed by the shrieks of the mother.
It’s the mother of the mother
Who sleeps in the river
While the grain becomes gold
Under the sun.
Where is the spirit of the hearth
The beautiful flame
The chestnuts, the mandarins
The poinsettia
The laid table?
Still
The jingling of coins
The murmur of evening prayers
The series of stories about life.
Where is the warm hand?
Her cane waits for her by the fire,
It is still,
It is not moving.
This poem is part of the collection "Extreme Fishing" (Italian edition), by Laura Bertolini 2013
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