Glass Island

    It was the Murano blue-stranded glass vase,
    filled with forget-me-nots and foxgloves,
    that first caught my eye. Standing prominently
    on the lace covered mahogany table,
    its flashes of pale pink and deep blue emerged
    like fragile fairy wings gleaming in the sunlight.
    At a second glance I imagined to see
    butterflies, flitting from some Venetian isle,
    arriving here, just to dance between
    the white yarrow and ferns, forming
    miniature Fazzoletto blooms that ripple
    and bend before me—
    But now, I wonder whether my eyes
    had failed to discern that the vase's
    stained appliqué represents a map of waterways,
    merely created by a contemporary glass blower
    to emblazon that network in his own mind.
    After all, even a disciple of renowned masters,
    who, centuries ago, enjoyed special privileges
    and were entitled to wear swords,
    still needs to find his way home
    to the nearby island of Murano —
    especially after a night of merriment
    in the heart of Venice.