In three hours,
and we, we will be gone, our tea cups
dry, our linens stacked, bags packed.
We leave, the heart of the bed faintly...
still... of love. We journey home to a land
that even now is still foreign.
Still, my tall and pale tapers
burn, waxed and white with holiness
They spark from Notredame to Sacre
Coeur, bridge our return, we go step-
-to-step, arm hooked in arm this park,
this air, this sky, this day, this path,