The Sun Child

I thought he was a ghost
with his skin like alabaster
and his hair like corn silk.
He stood in the cold,
outside my door,
when it was still dark,
to remind me of the morning.
"Hello," he said.
And I said it back, for
it was all I knew how to give.
He watched me
while we cut the bread
and drank the coffee with it.
What great, big eyes,
so brilliantly violet, so clear,
as only such a child's eyes can be.
He was as white as snow,
Madame's little Sun Child.

What is Pink?

There is pink, and then there is Pink.

Pink is the color of the wind when the sun sets on the French Riviera and the sky blushes softly at first, and then furiously. You have never seen Pink like this. Not when the all the world is drenched in its light, and the buildings bathe in it.

You cannot know this kind of Pink without having climbed to the Chateau de Nice first, to watch the sky burn. The cool evening air will soon dry the perspiration on your brow, and you will catch your breath after only a little while. No doubt Pink exists in many other forms, but I am not speaking of those pinks. I speak of this one, the Pink of the Bournes', that soft camellia flush.

There is a bottle of rosé in the fridge That, too, is Pink.

My Chucks

 ...climb enough staircases

to reach Heaven

and return with with a snow globe.

...step gingerly around puddles

only to sink unwittingly into mud.

The soil, you see, 

is soft and full of guile

in this part of France.

...collect lime dust,

as their owner 

counts the spirals 

in Jesus' robe.

...are removed with relief

Yonne

"I'll bet you've never seen a French hamlet before," our professor said. There was a rousing chorus of assent as we filed off the bus. My father came from a small village in China that I suppose could also be called a hamlet, but I'm not sure. It wasn't anything like what we saw as we stood in the gray light of Yonne, waiting for everyone to collect their bags from the underbelly of the bus.

Vezelay

After spending the day and most of the afternoon in Vezelay, we came here, to Yonne. What remains of the day is cold, overcast, and gloomy. A little while ago, perhaps at 18:30, it began to drizzle. It's still drizzling without any sign of increasing or decreasing in intensity. It's an earnest, steady addition to our day.

I cannot speak, as I've lost my voice sometime in the night. It's a good excuse. I don't want to talk much, and not having a voice is a very good excuse. When you can't speak above a rasp, no one tries very hard to engage you in conversation.

Yonne is a very small place. Boring, maybe. But it's beautiful. There are apple trees belonging to the street they grow beside. They are far from the orchards and so some of us leaned over the hollows and plucked a few choice fruits. The fields are green-velvety- or brown-freshly tilled. Yesterday was warm, when we were in Dijon, and earlier today in Vezelay, but now it's anything but. It's an exercise in getting acquainted with a dreary kind of beautiful.

I walked very slowly along the dirt roads, smiling to acknowledge my friends as they skipped gaily by. I would that I were alone in this place. It's peaceful, but not the kind that comes from roaring waves- the peace that I know. The silence is profoundly startling. And it magnifies whatever sound erupts from whatever source.

I think this is a nice place to be tired in. The idea of an idyllic farm life is inviting. I do not think that I need to tell you that this is a dream of Yonne that we see. I cannot know what such an existence is really like, and all I've got, really, is generalization and fantasy. Perhaps I'd hate it here. Perhaps what seems peaceful now will grow monotonous, for I think I need the roar of waves. Perhaps the dogs that come barking to greet us will grow less charming in time.

But it seems unlikely. And for now, the dream tastes real and I will leave and remember the lingering sweetness.

 

 

Dijon Stone

What is dirty here

is soiled from passing years.

And what is water-stained

has withstood tears.

What is whole 

fears

what is broken

and crumbling

and grand.

The stones of Dijon house 

what bleeds prayer.