Poetry

Here it is -

that eternal surprise:

poetry.

Poetry of leaves,

branches, roots,

of famous blue skies,

kids’ laughter, kids’ cries.

Poetry of bells

that ring from far off,

of aeroplanes, cars,

factories, machines.

Poetry of echoes,

reflections,

repetitions,

traditions.

Poetry still more

from silence,

from darkness

between the stones

of a pavement

where a woman walks,

dressed for summer,

with regular steps,

with heavy bags,

who nonetheless

happily manages

to swagger

in the sun.

And yes, in this there’s

poetry -

the almost unnoticed

movements

of a woman going home

about whom I know nothing else.