oh the gravity of snow – not so much boots sinking as one’s entire corporality. How earth-bound are we in snow and yet its other-worldliness [like that of arora borealis] lifts that essence some call soul…
I felt I still had one in Padua, all the long the curious hunt – tracking the haloed masterpieces … preternatural things – those numismatic angels.
I still dream of cities, you know – Austrian or Italian in the main – those I first saw in winter before season condensed into metaphor…
In my dreams I am still breathless in Padua – unwilling to face how little there might be to justify the lies and cruelties of those times, concerned only with the radiance left behind – the legacy of beauty.
So many who profit from exploitation invariably call it progress – or holiness – but Art [I shout inwardly, determined to convince] Art shapes our view of everything else. Even love. The greater it is the more present it remains – like the charm of giotto’s heavenly messengers – ever to surround us – a tinted aura, an early autumn haze that somehow lingers
Sometimes, fingers frozen deep in my pockets, I tell myself such beauty will survive even the bloodiest of centuries. And sometimes I even believe it