The sound of Christian’s voice stirs me, awake
the vision of undulating ridges—verdant—
as my head falls, slowly, the window of the van
a glimpse of light through the rock on water
My coup de foudre. Southern France
with winding roads and biking hills
Take me to where the Ardèche flows.
Goodbye to the sweater shed from shoulder.
Lunch eaten fresh in October by the river.
Comté and baguette spread on our blanket.
We are off to Nîmes
Where butterflies are chased, beneath the bridge
the water rushes below me.
In Arles, the Rhône
where I can dream.
A quiet stream only for me
and those whose memory swims on
behind the easel—
natural and wild—so near—
masked by morning mist
that brushes, alters, clouds Vincent’s canvas
to a “foggy day over the Rhône,” we should say
and an old painting feels like home under
the stars. Am I free?
River scintillates in the dark of night
where I sit. The reflection is of me.
For my course in environmental literature.
i dream of you
the way your fingertips
dance so gently across my skin
a warm breath on my neck
rendering my frame to tremble with delight
enthralling my frangible spirit
by the mere sight of your diamond eyes
the saccharine taste of honey
dripping from the lips you press to mine
the things i would do
to finally be with you
even after wasted time
the blood drips
from my trembling fingers
painting red stains
upon the pages
of a chapter
in my book
in our story
in which it has
already been written
already been read
yet i still sit idly
with my head
against this wall
as the pit of fear
in my stomach
grows and deepens
and as the sun sets
beneath my windowsill
waiting for you.
— The End —