Venice in Winter

If you spoke to me, Serenissima (and I think you do),
you would say that these short nights are when you finally
breathe, become yourself in that way I let down
my hair when the last guests have gone and we are alone.
An exhalation. A quiet celebration.
There is room to move. To walk the quiet calles,
cross the empty campiellos, hear our footsteps ringing on stones
as we pass windows lit by burning glass.
To see the moon casting candlelight on the water's surface,
to feel the chill air. We watch the mist drift over the Adriatic,
listen to the tide wash against moss-drenched walls,
how it softly bumps boats against wooden pilings,
and rocks the temporary bridges, pontoons floating
like glowing balloons over the canal.
We walk smoothly without interruption into the night.
Until the swells from the daily boats recede over the edges
of the sea, the dip of the gondoliers' final oars falling
away to home. Every fading, watery echo sounding
like a mother’s hand dipping into bathwater,
christening her child's head before sleep.