Except that the fields are undulations
of red and lavender. It must be
a kind of heather, I say aloud,
driving past, the word
caressing the wind coming up,
coming in the window. I imagine
heaths when the sun goes behind clouds
and April gives itself over to the past
while inventing a future
fraught with consequence.
Farther south, a deep green landscape
waits for the man whose vision
is enlarged, the horizon disappearing
as if he’d dreamed himself
toward paradise. The woman’s heaven
is somewhere else, in Paris,
where chestnut trees are barely
coming into bud, where breezes
carry gusts of syllables
to a courtyard where she drinks
hot chocolate, the fire-breather
not yet arrived at the square,
the chairs mostly empty.
She can see the ghost
of someone who used to sit there,
who liked the sun’s glare
in her eyes in early morning,
early spring, that hint of heat
a glaze that made the shapes
of her worlds congruent, the mind
a fabric laid over the city,
its details imprinted
like blossoms on silkscreen,
a map she could follow.
A Day like Any Other
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