Ciclo CLVIII

The light on the water this morning was not the light of Italy — it is softer here, più dolce, as though the sky hesitates before it gives itself to the earth. I watched a leaf turn in the current of the canal and thought: so does the soul turn, not by its own will but by a motion already present in the stream. The hand is steadier today. Whether this is grace or merely the quiet of an empty room, I cannot say — but the line I drew held true from beginning to end, and that, for now, is enough.