Issue 11 | Summer 2012

Our Room With Open Door

Through double doors, sunlight sprinkles on rush mats
and high ceilings are restored to look old. Arches and roses
stretch for acres, and poets sit by the far pond
most of the afternoon writing or napping.
Then, kir on the terrace, and a late dinner of foie gras,
poisson grilles and tarte aux pomme. The full moon
basks over the green Vézère River and soft voices in canoes
hold torches for an evening journey – the same water
where small broad-backed horses drank their fill.
The delicate skulls now sit in the museum and it is said
their fur was pale yellow to bluish grey. I’d love to see
the tiny hooves kicking up colored stones at rivers’ edge.
In the morning – flat faces of lime-scented geraniums
press against our window, insistent, damp and warm.

Filed under: Poetry