Next week’s winter
sky’s dead drizzling
vines bare trees still
autumn russet grass
green but not growing
it is almost Christmas
in the village a market
the people are smiling
coffee at the cafe
waiting for sun
to warm the terrace
the Cevenole know no
less than the seasons
praise the Cigales
when they return
Christmas more
than a day a birth
I am here and nowhere
like New York
Copenhagen Amsterdam
Lisbon nowhere else
she sleeps I soon
will sleep in Spain
windy days the sea
waves Sundays
the people breakfast
at the bakery smoke
cigarettes over coffee
children loose in the streets
it’s almost as if unto us
a savior is born
but that’s why I’m here
the last thing I need
is saving the first thing
to be left alone
Back in France after six months
in Andulacia it is cold the earth
is brown the sky is gray the leaves
smell dead and except for wind
silence I am another year here
what I think matters little now
to what is eternal so many gone
in their turn so many still alive
this is the age of letting go
of everything except of what
is eternal I being the exception
