Peace in Bassano del Grappa

Rainclouds, dressed in royal blue, 
drift south from the alpine glaciers
and replenish the brio of the river
Brenta. Thunder rolls. Pigeons hide.
Breezes perfume the city with jasmine, 
rosemary, and lavender.  

Tourists, returning early from Monte Grappa, 
shelter under the old covered bridge. They talk 
tour buses, altitude sickness, and World War I, 
until buongiorno becomes buona sera. 

The rain stops. Everyone indulges 
in a cold kiss of gelato before dinner. 

Below the cloud line, 
between two peaks,
opens a small door of sun.