Florence May Evening

That evening laying

down its silken shade

on May Florence

by the Tuscan hills

felt weary after all

that sunny day

as slowly as it went

through the streets

with its calm and peace.

And away there

from old palaces

a pair of young

Americans

was just

strolling by—

the man was black,

and all of her—

was gold and white.

Perhaps students

learning local art

or two soldiers

on an outing

or a romance hunt,

thanks to Uncle Sam.

And by the bus

that turned at once

now so empty

and way too vast,

a guide just stopped

and, with a glance,

a sudden strike,

a hasty plea,

she warily asked

for a hasty clasp

to a goodbye,

and there it was—

a glint, a flight

of a tiny tear,

betrayed

in her eye.

Swiftly he slid by

as the sunset wing

stood wide and quiet

in the late Spring sky.