Whenever the fleeting rush of adventure arose within her, in the nature of the wind
Catalina breezed easterly, southerly, northerly, in pursuit of her temptations.
She had formed an image of Burano from the chitter-chatter of local lips.
Woman sat at spindles, spinning cotton and silk into small flying flowers,
perfectly curled script and the finest lace pillow.
Tapestries with the Punto Burano (the stitch of Burano) were hung in the windows and sold for thousands upon thousands of lire.
Sitting on the edge of Murano’s furthest stretching street, legs dangling above sea-green,
Catalina spied houses a mural of marble painted along the waters ahead.
A mirror image of it’s glass making brother, Burano was held in its eyes across the Lagoon.
An obscure treasure, maybe tales of which were not plentiful enough to reach her nonno in the north.
© elenaxtina.com, 2015