THE BEAUTIFUL EYE
FALLS IN LOVE WITH PARIS ALL OVER AGAIN
I have a little house in Paris
The door opens onto a quiet street.
Around the corner an old bookstore.
And a tiny bistro with a zinc bar.
I have a little house in Paris with a courtyard.
Tall windows overlook the courtyard.
Fragrant herbs grow around my door.
Grinning wolves spill water into a stone trough.
Romulus and Remus.
Guardians of my courtyard.
I have a house in Paris.
Where enfilade rooms lead quietly into each other.
And ancient wood floors creak a complaining welcome.
In the kitchen surrounded by gleaming pots
and ancient cutting boards
I sauté lamb and sausages.
Simmer Tarbais beans to a silky softness.
Crisp the golden duck confit.
The cassoulet bakes.
I break the crust again and then again.
I’ve shined the silver.
Ironed the linen.
Polished the floors.
Edith Piaf fills my little house with songs of love.
I brush the silver dust of Paris from the balcony railing.
It is that suspended moment in time.
Not day. Not night.
I lean out.
I can see my Monsieur Tinny and beloved Theadora.
Tonight we celebrate our love of Paris.