Graziella CardilloLa magia che ogni tanto si ridesta
mi scuoterà al nuovo sole
inventando uno svolazzo di risata
che sia d’impudicizia un vezzo
o solo un’occasione.
Farà di una bugia di primavera
uno scherzo di bambina.
con i sonagli alle caviglie
e fiori rossi tra i capelli
mi verrà a cercare.
Sarà per me succo di more,
acquoreo gemizio di foresta,
sarà soltanto vita
che chiocciola e trascorre
tra le maglie distese delle dita.
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