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. A thousand stories tumble from the shelves into my waiting hands.
There’s a tiny bistro resplendent with a zinc bar. And a blackboard chalked with splendid anticipation.
I have a little house in Paris with a courtyard.
Fragrant thyme grows round my door.
Tall windows overlook the courtyard.
There’s rusty metal table and two battered chairs,
Nothing is perfect here.
Everything is perfect here.
Grinning wolves spill water into a stone trough.
Romulus and Remus.
Guarding my courtyard. Guarding my dreams
I have a house in Paris.
Where enfilade rooms lead quietly into each other.
And ancient wood floors whisper the passing of bygone footsteps.
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 dancing down the tree-lined boulevard.
We will raise our glasses.
Tonight we celebrate our love of Paris.