The rain prevents travel
across the canal.
It cries down
upon the earth
with anger and passion.
Our furnace floods,
and everyone except me
is called to bail it
and preserve the fires and wood
so we will not lose precious time
we need to produce our glass.
Our palazzo echoes
like an empty drum,
gray and gloomy
as my disposition.
I almost wish to have
been in trouble over my dress
rather than tread water
in my isolated loneliness.
Thunder announces itself,
and a voice calls,
“Hello?”
“No one is here but me, Maria,”
I yell, and scurry to the front hall.
Luca’s hair drips a puddle
onto the floor. He slicks it back
with his hand, and his eyes
nearly shimmer silver in the half-light.
“Fetch your cloak. We must go
and move the supplies in the studio.”
“Hurry! The rain does not wait
for you to make debate.”
I speed up the stairs,
whirl on my cloak
as though it were a cape.
I grasp Luca’s hand
and rush into the downpour.
A quiver radiates up my spine.
I quickly release my hold.
“Follow me,” I say,
trying to sound authoritative.