SILVIA PIO
I once said the apricot tree was my home
because I preferred its clamorous leaves
to the silence sounding the old walls.
When autumn began to confine me inside
I would look to the tree as one looks to a shore
at the end of a travel by sea,
to the sun from a place ransacked by rain.
Now that the tree has died, am I homeless?
I should have chosen oak, chestnut from wildness
but they can die, too, I’m afraid.
And it was an apricot tree which stood by the house,
anyway.
I once said the apricot tree was my home
and now in these rooms
full of sanity, empty of sense
I am left to roam.
From “Passaggio in Arabia”, Marco Del Bucchia Editore 2012.
Photo: Bruna Bonino
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