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
which we breath like oxygen
photo by moineau
3 commentaires:
beautiful poem on the ephemerality of life... xoxo
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.
laura,
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 bed...it was like triggering memories of similar events that we all have had....and you did it so well! r.w.
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