A Child’s Dream of Springtime in Post-World War II Italy

By Cole Newman

Some sweet, naïve child—God, perhaps—has frozen the sunrise against the horizon, so its thin, golden fingers may paint the whole world waltzing atop one lonely hill; one person leaning into the other, one person melting into the next, into the next, until we are a single, gently swaying shape, dark and lovely, a single pair of lips murmuring softly about how pretty the sun looks on this particular morning.