Flowers, stones, vegetable gardens, but also cities and streets, and then cicadas and snails, children who are no longer children and children who are forever children; days, buttons, shadows. Beatrice Masini's world is made up of things that are close at hand, often small in size, sometimes very large in their smallness: the things that furnish everyday life and which, if not seen, not looked at, not spoken of, risk disappearing. Poetry is the quickest and surest way to hold them close, measured by meters or in freedom, and remember what is important: the beauty of the ugly, a lost ring, a blade of grass, a sleeping warrior, ineffable animal friendships.