I

March has come to the hills outside Bologna;
the snow melts slowly here beneath San Luca.

II

A mild breeze dances among the dark pine trees;
whispers resound in the Fosse Ardeatine.

III

A cold rain falls, falls cold above Bassano;
the Brenta flows on, on over white stone.

IV

Fields blush—blossoming poppies at the roadside;
each bloom a wound that history scraped open.

V

A woman hesitates beneath the portico;
a canal glimpsed from a forgotten window.

VI

In Longarone the dawn’s breath is strangled
by the past; infants dashed against the rocks.

VII

In autumn the wind whispers in the piazza,
a boy picks up the scent of chestnuts roasting.

– Eric T. Racher