Peace in Provence
It runs on its own time.
An hour here is five days
back home.
Even the sun trudges slowly
across the sky,
So as to take his time
with the lavender and grapes.
On a café terrace,
Doors thrown open
to the street,
Two men play a spirited game
of cards.
Paul Cézanne,
Concealed in a corner,
Paints them hurriedly,
His brush a ballet dancer
on the canvas.
A blue pirouette here,
A green plié there,
It'll be a masterpiece
when it's done.
Cicadas lead a chorus
in the cypress trees overhead,
Or perhaps that's the music
of bicycle spokes.
Their riders offer a 'Bonjour'
when you pass them
on the winding roads.
Above it all,
Mont Sainte-Victoire
offers her praises
in the form of winds
over her broad shoulders.


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