Tonight the Seine flows

steady, and I am far. There,

it is early. The morning

croissants, baking before

breaking, butter softening

on the table. The first

stirrings of Paris,

as the residents awaken,

as we did, as we took to

our great bathroom, stood

before the large-hinged

windows, the courtyard-

rooftop view, and I felt

the softness of the water

as it pinked my cheeks

from sleep. There,

everything seems softer.

The light apricot and gentle,

the swell and water rise of the Seine

as the current rounds Notredame

and swirls to Rue Mazarine,

to your old, high garret.

How clearly I see it.

These shoes that bear

the dust of every Paris

rue, avenue. Now, as Paris wakes,

we turn the blankets down

to sleep and when we embrace,

when we kiss, I feel the rhythm

of the Metro, the regular, sweet

rocking, as if in this joining

we bridge land to land. I find

you on this night, the way I

found you in Paris. The way

I knew we were home at last.