Please call it life

_____To S.

Please call it life, this endless spark
Where God gives a bit of his time
To grass on Saturday morning,
And stares from a seething light
Force animals to silence-
Sure, but the thing is the moon is in shambles,
As no-one minds the days, that cyanotic blue breaking down
In a wrath sowing seeds of loss
While women smile and men hint to you that
Nights, or books won’t give you shelter,
Nor will the sky, the sea, those wary right-wingers
Who frown on changes, always stay the same-
No problems, OK, if she goes on breathing
Among boulders or climbers you just stop her,
Stop gathering from the street the shreds
Of unfathomable lights, maybe chance it with God
To get a tent in the desert, and only then
Those seeds will show up,
Nevermind if she looks so frail,
Long gone are the days she would nick
Books, prophets, the underwood, and loss
Just to spicy up a life where her soul withdrew
From women going to ambush her-
Is that you, God, are you done yet?
Ok, but please stay in touch, stay tuned, God,
While she’s sitting next to her, just rest your eyes
On that vibrant woman in love,
Maybe the grass in love, maybe her soul
Who can’t trust summer, nor demise.

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of these books: “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”.