BLESSING XIV.

The island sparkles in the sun
in the last mornings of summer,
as if it has dipped back
into the dark blue sea
and been washed overnight.
The grass tastes of salt,
sunlight glitters on the leaves
of bushes and trees and vines,
and the sand and stones
and earth all are damp.
 
Long-limbed just lately,
our girl runs through the yard,
with her dreamy smile,
her busy mind,
alive to her unfolding self.
 
Two days and nights before,
the island was lashed by rain.
In darkness we awoke
to the downpour
and embraced for dear life.
The rain fell around us,
hiding the moon and stars
and battering our little house,
and we remembered
an afternoon
in Venice long ago,
when running for cover
from a sudden cloudburst,
we were surprised by a man
singing of love
as he stood under the awning
of a restaurant
in the streaming summer;
as we crossed the piazza,
he opened his arms
and smiling gazed
into our eyes,
as if dedicating
his song to us.