(reflecting on I Dormienti by Mimmo Palladino)
She places her ear close to the sound of the earth
where cool green water pools upon stone, caught
in a memory, when air she breathed was fresh with
the breezes soft against her cheek, when the hot winds
that now weigh down her body were but passing
moments of brief summer.
She has become clay, she has become stone herself
as she sleeps, her cheek pressed to the ground. She
dreams of winter and the immaculate white of new-
fallen snow. She remembers the joy of making snow
angels. Her mouth remembers the taste of ice-crystals,
the quench of cold water in her throat.
Carol A. Stephen
August 14, 2012