Matilde

Matilde travels light. Her alpine
inclinations had cock-crowed dawn,
determining her drift, alone,
as now she goes, along an incline

into this open realm of free,
irresistible, thought-full movement.
And, just for this snow-rich moment,
she claims for herself the liberty

of melting down the drawing room,
and sweeping clear the bureau’s
clutter. Out goes the past – tomorrow’s
nothing to her now – as there loom,

instead, her titans: they who jutted
up, some other ageless dawn; who
put life’s petty pomp into
primal perspective. Now she’s whetted

her appetite for such ascents.
She positively billows joy
and sports her hat a care-free way.
She travels light.