Winter

Now it has

unmistakeably

turned winter.

In the furrows

of the fallow

has the water

which gathered,

maybe over

a long time,

or only just

a week ago,

turned into

an even sheet

that swallows

all light,

with its gray,

and posesses

no shine.

Encompassed

by the rough

gashes

in the ground,

my heart too

has acquired

a protective

shell of ice,

and I wonder

where is it

gone,

the light,

which now

I no longer

reflect?