more weeds

weeds growing

on synthetic turf,

green too

**

last minute 

pre-departure stuff 

includes 

a return 

to do list:

optimism

**

what to leave behind—

well, the old masters said,

pretty much everything

**

stomach slightly off,

hot coffee settles slowly,

asks permission

**

on the plane, 

reading a book of poems

left behind by a friend

I will leave on a bench 

for someone  

in France

—secrets people live by—

spread without a sound

those in charge

ever hear

I learned to do this

from a poet you may not

have heard of either…

**

one of my teachers once said

of my many teachers

some might tell

but one thing

to help 

further my way—

I try 

to never dismiss

any signal

**

—Aix-en Provence 

#1

gentle rolling hills,

half-moon morning,

chilled clearing sky

street signs 

sounding quietly 

like French

#2

in its window front,

Bar & Books,

closed Easter Sunday,

offers refuge anyway:

“Art Against Despair”

**

—Nimes

after jet-lag, before street lamps close

along the dark canal,

electric motor scooters

whiz by—Earnest Hemingway

once stayed at our hotel

*-

morning three light here

unfolds market day

on the esplanade—

truck doors opening 

to French, I hide my English

behind my lips 

**

approaching Lyon, wind turbines,

spring green, blue, blue skies,

the roll of the central range, 

of the pen, the pulsing hand

**

for the poet, engaging the mystery

is writing’s singing, not the written

birds wing, birds sing

tracks tell too little

**

we nod and drop-off,

the bus stutters beside the Rhone,

looks for signals from traffic

for today’s rules

**

the way for me,

even when seemingly lost, 

is this one—do you hear

in the light of this darkness 

the many musics there

**

in the morning

in the park

across from Hotel Le Barge, 

doves and dark-holding trees 

**

suddenly, mountains

the bus muscles, 

tunnels take us in

**

a brisk walk

on empty morning streets

clears the mind

so much of itself,

yesterday’s plans 

for today

nearly vanish

**

Dijon

two mornings, 

a day, another and 

still no mustard

**

made a mistake this morning

to turn to the “news,”

of the worst

of human behavior and character,

only to have it rise in my own chest

and mind: bodhisattvas 

in wolves’ clothing

**

Paris, the city, today,

first coughs in my face, 

then, petal by petal, slowly

unfolds its charms, 

taking my breath away

once again.

**

empty sky flight time

and dreams of the deep rest

only familiar boundaries offer