Two twin-like English sisters ran the place.
When we checked in, one asked, “Is it the case . . .?”
The other finished, “It’s your honeymoon?”
It was. They handed us a key, and soon
We had a tiny rooftop room—all bed.
By day the roof was open to the guests,
An English breakfast served at their request
And cocktails poured from five to eight o’clock.
But right at eight, the rooftop lift was locked.
“Now Florence is . . . All yours!” the sisters said.
We looked down from the roof: The Arno flowed
Through arches where the Ponte Vecchio
Took three bold leaps to cross its moonlit stream.
We looked the other way: The Duomo seemed
A carousel of floodlit splendor, stilled.
Young, married—all we had was everything.
And even though the nights were cold that spring,
We left the windows open, making love
Till hints of dawn, pink-gray, stirred like a dove,
And morning broke upon the Tuscan hills.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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But we can’t do it without readers like you.
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