I will tell you a story.
I have a house in Paris.
The door of my little house opens onto a quiet street.
Around the corner the open-air market. Every morning I fill my basket with rich cheeses and plunder from the country.
There’s an old bookstore. Shelves musty with words.
And a tiny bistro with a zinc bar where my wine glass makes circles of happiness.
I have a little house in Paris with a courtyard.
Where grinning lions spill water into a stone-gray trough.
Water to refresh body and soul on a hot summers day.
I have a little house in Paris.
With sparsely furnished rooms leading into one another – enfilade.
And ancient wooden floors that creak and complain.
Tall windows overlook the courtyard of my little house,
Tall windows where I hang linen curtains that float and dance with every breeze.
The kitchen in my little house in Paris has cold stone floors. An ancient stove. A wooden table scrubbed white.
My house, my little house in Paris is in my mind. To journey to it I have but to close my eyes and I am turning the key on the big front door.