Infinite at Play
Our Sunday walk outside the village,
into the countryside frosted silence,
just a few metres after the asphalt
the path begins, in icy stillness,
the dogs pull at the leash, pant eagerly,
in puffs of breath like the horses of our memory,
which foresaw in their legs the fields' threads.
our Sunday walk and rite, towards the still
cold and crackling stones of the hill
and now on our feet our gaze taking in a line
of briny needles like fish scales, a line on end
of briny thin gossamers of leaves' frames
or grass blades,
white arabesques of sky froth,
lace signatures
on the hardened black,
sky and earth
letting go
of their vowels and consonants
like a breath
of faith
"it's just frost" you say
"pure frost on grass"
and pass your fingers
on the feather-blade showing
frost dissolving like powder
while I at once smell hay,
highly improbable, yes,
in the dead of winter,
but what do we know of grass
and infinite at play?
DAVIDE TRAME is an English teacher, born and living in Venice-Italy, writing poems exclusively in English since 1993. His poems have been published in around four hundred literary magazines since 1999 in the UK, USA, and elsewhere; recently in Poetry New Zealand, New Contrast (South Africa), Nimrod (US), and Prague Literary Review.
