A lukewarm April afternoon
Bearing faint smells
Of basil, garlic, oregano,
With a hint of Nivea hand cream
The poplars in the Parc Montsouris
Whisper about the shameless
Forsythia, aflame, down
Where the cygnets paddle
I hide my eyes
Behind winterpale hands,
Guessing at tiny colour specks
Framed by orange slits
The day becomes bearable at last,
A kaleidoscope of tepid spots,
Soft sighs and weightless whiffs;
And I’m not there, just not there