The rain has stopped, and the wet pavement winds
A glimmering river through the glassy trees.
The hour is late, behind their shuttered blinds
Lover and loved one yield themselves to sleep.
The window lamps are darkened, only one
Glows like a strange ripe fruit in that quiet square.
And he, whose nightly travail has begun.
Watches white faced, and does not feel the wind.
The light drips through the wooden slats like juice
Crushed from a press of golden grapes for wine.
And all his heart cries out at her abuse
Of this, their signal, that she kept for him.
How many times he’d sought that sign and known,
With quickening flesh, Odette was his — and now,
Waiting, he learns in anguish and alone.
Her lamp still beckons, but he knows not whom!
Image credit: David S. Soriano