#26 - Souvenir de Provence (a sestina)

 

The brick house stands in the morning air,

her figure dwarfed by the rising mountains

who are illuminated in the rays of sunlight

that fall upon us as we peer through the blue gate,

watching the wind sweep across the grass,

over the silent ripples of the lake.

The old kayak leans against the shore of the lake,

the black dog leaps through the air

towards it, running in the thread-like grass,

the only sign of life in the foreground of towering mountains.

We open the gate

surrounded in warm light

and waves of light

winds that carry summer leaves up across the lake,

flying into the weathered gate,

leaving us in a garden of open air

facing the high, fearless mountains,

as we stand in the swaying grass.

When we return to the brick house along the grass,

the sun has dimmed her shining light,

the brilliance of the mountains

has transformed into a simple landscape, the lake

has been painted shades of orange, and the dense air

pulls the afternoon light out the gate.

Night floods in through the gate

spreading her gentle darkness across the grass,

listening to the music of cicadas in the air,

as the house glows in the moonlight,

a companion to the lonely lake

and the sleeping mountains.

Did the magic lie in the noble peaks of the mountains,

the whirling leaves around the gate,

the lilac bushes surrounding the glass-like lake,

the infinite fields of tall grass,

the midnight gleam of the flickering lamplight,

or was it the swirling scent of paradise in the air?

No, it was the moment when we left the warm air and kind mountains,

the moonlight shining through the blue gate

as the rusty wheels drove off the grass, far away from the silent lake.