In Sonnino

By Helen Bar-Lev

Signora Italia
sits on her terrace
on the top of steep steps

She is so old, so white,
so wrinkled, so immobile,
she seems to be rooted
in the planters like the flowers around her

She stares at us as we pass up the alley
and is there still when we return
many photographs and espressos later

Signora Italia does not say bongiorno,
does not wave, has not moved at all
and I envy this woman
planted in the soil of her country

While I am the intruder,
stuttering in her language
faltering in her alleyways
humbled before her history

As much as I read,
as much as I see
I shall never know how it is
to be rooted here