lundi 2 novembre 2009

day's end on the bus to vauvenargues

an endless day unfurls

along a route of azure
we lean into mountains
we seek equilibrium
on the long ride home

already the full moon
rises from dust and marble
our history finds us
alone, tired, used up, with
no voice left to converse

thus does silence fill us
soldiers of fortune all
on the road to vauvenargues
our muscles do not clench
as the bus passes into darkness

we anticipate our endings
our suppers, our books, our beds
nothing left on the inside of us
yet this beauty enters
we breath like oxygen

photo by moineau

3 commentaires:

Brenda a dit…

beautiful poem on the ephemerality of life... xoxo

enudelman a dit…

love this poem, Laura. Thanks for the great comment left on my poem. Provence is one of our favorite spots. A couple of years ago we spent three weeks in Gigaro, south of Nice and traveled all around, drank way too much Premier Cru Burgundy and lounged around in the hot sun on the beach.

Anonyme a dit…

great poem...made me feel like i was there...i think we have all been there...a long day...the bus ride home...the anticapation of our own warm was like triggering memories of similar events that we all have had....and you did it so well! r.w.