Ceremonial

Unknown Artist

This is how I recall it:

A light lunch at my well-loved kitchen table:

crusty bread and baked camembert with

walnuts, rosemary, and honey. Then,

the coy invitation to take dessert outdoors.

Shall we? And, Certainly!

Crème brûlée? And, Unquestionably!

The streets glittered from the light rain,

and travelers came from near and far.

Taking cover beneath a bright umbrella, we spoke

in simple words—but, with what majesty!

Between us: two ramequins of saccharine rapture,

a sweating bottle of Chablis, and the sounds of

the ancient town, mingled with the voice of

Carla Bruni rasping out Enjoy the Silence...

or was it Quelqu'un m'a dit?

June held us in tender folds of silver and gold.

Immersed in our togetherness, I reflected:

Is this a betweenness or a withness?

But, oh, pranks of malleable memory . . .

Anything to lure us back into what once was!

Today, I stand in another June light—silver and

gold—remembering two women on a soft 

afternoon in Lille, and beaming. 

The grass holds tight to the ground, and to

the ten thousand blossoms here for the day. 

The bumble bees quiet and disperse.

A smile parts my lips as, ever so gently, evening

steals in—mild breeze and violet hues—startling 

me with its magnificent proximity. 

The symphony of twilight hums in my ears.

I shut my eyes and raise a glass: 

Santé, ma belle amie!

In this field of memory . . . nostalgia . . . 

wildflowers . . . 

dreams . . .      

I exult in

the enigmatic communion of then and now.