Paris and the Rain
Love is a viola at the end of summer.
It’s raining, and my wife’s name is Marie.
In Paris we stood on Ponte Marie in the rain,
looked down river to boats with gardens,
umbrellas parading along both sides of the water.
We smiled like we would die next moment,
because yesterday, inside Notre Dame,
footsteps echoed in a masterpiece of silence.
We watched light turn glass and stone to glory.
Paris: Hot chocolate at a famous cafe,
where lesbians and actors talked poetry
and architecture. Frowning waiters leaned
at tables-for-two with trays of espresso
and baguettes. Flowerpots drizzled orange
and purple petals from the eaves.
Ponte Marie under our feet in the rain.
Soft green air around chestnut trees
along the Champs-Elysées.
Our hands on stone bridges. Love and rain
in a painting by a master of light.
Rain is a lover who falls to the trees from clouds.
It’s raining in Florida. We sit on our patio
watching wet mangos fall—blushing plump women
once the rage and lust of Paris.
The silence between us fills with books.
Marie reads a French novel about an unfaithful man,
and I, a book about a fictitious painting by Renoir.
Rain here, rain in Paris, and music.
Music in love with the mortal, carnal world.