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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) As rain washes the terrace, I share morning with street lamps still burning past daybreak, a book of pressed leaves and some tea. Dried foliage resides between pages that tell of a girl who sold matches and lit three of them to keep warm on the streets of a frozen city.. She struck each one against a wall and marveled at how the flames ignited visions of food, family and heat, dreams that sustained her -- only seconds against Winter's chill.. I thought about her story when walking the park. and searching for inspiration. Leaves flared at my feet, swatches of firelight wanting to spark more than color, some glint of thought as my hand picked up the yellow one first. Golden grass loaned its fringe to a sea cliff where I sat high and impressionable before the horizon, a girl who decided then she wanted to become an artist. A second leaf caught my attention with its red warning of change. I reached out and remembered my son's sail boat floating in the stone fountain, He was twelve on the verge of turning thirteen, Soon he would steer his time more toward Rugby and other sports, the linen mast a wing and the rope - a long root stretching toward me and branches bent low as if trying to grasp the expelled wishes of childhood.. and there was a third leaf, brown like the leather suit cases that now sit half unpacked in this new apartment facing a queen's historic quarters at Versailles. To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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and toward middle age, a blond woman thinking I should paint the rain as Marie Antoinette, clad in her silver gown and bringing a basket of flowers, from her Petit Trianon, her Spring, to this cold skyline and my balcony, saying --- Your youth is still there, inside your beautiful head, and it always will be, it always will be. Free MUSIC provided by 
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