paris in the spring


I stood at the summit of the Eiffel Tower

Looking out over all of Paris in the spring

Through the thin safety of cold steel mesh

Listening to the sound of my silent voice

Express how the journey to reclaim myself

Was more than seeking out new Geography

Dressed in fleecy layers, I was warm enough

Dry from the addition of a short trench coat

Feeling the bite of icy wind sting my cheeks

My long hair secured beneath my black beret

I felt very much like the visiting tourist I was

In a city I had dreamed about since youth

I walked your streets and touched your walls

Hands skimming over stones and ancient brick

Wondering who else may have stopped here

To ponder life while looking at the Seine

As pedestrian traffic surged over distant bridges

And the waterways began to fill with traffic

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7 Responses to paris in the spring

  1. Ned's Blog says:

    I’ve often contemplated the passage of time and people, and how they intersect at material places — drawn by beauty or significance, whether historic or personal — and how it’s human nature to want to touch those places. Your description was both beautiful and significant, touching all the right places while being brief enough to leave a sense of longing for the unexplored.

    Paris is good to you and your writing.

    • rougedmount says:

      it is magical…seeing the patina on stone, knowing that hundreds of thousands of hands have drawn along the hard surface and left a piece of their presence behind. Standing in place, daydreaming, to then realize that some paused as I did, evidenced by worn indentations of cobblestone or the smooth surface of an otherwise rough surface. It makes me sad that metal will not be able to translate the same sense of history that stone does. Metal is the language spoken by short term history and is discarded as it fails and returns to what it once was, instead of what we shaped it into.

      • Ned's Blog says:

        So very true. It makes me think of a staircase I built in our home. All wood, stained and treated. But over the years it has darkened from the oil of my hands, those of my children and of my wife. The edges have smoothened even more, and it’s easy to see where everyone pauses on their way down — and how the kids use the last banister knob to whip themselves around the bottom corner.

        You don’t get that kind of personal wear with steel or formica.

      • rougedmount says:

        ohh i love that so much..houses have stories..and the wear of wood and stone lets you remember the recent past and little hands, a busy life and noisy children…

  2. ismeisreallyme says:

    *this* this is how I feel about my annual solo visits to London….

  3. Catnip says:

    A bracing work of poetry that blows me away as if like natural art that changes every time you look at it.

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