On the Way to the Musée d'Orsay

The city tunes its flute
while I hurry across the Tuileries
for the impressionists across the street.
Now the wind warms up,
plucks the sound of children leaving,
rustles the leaves like its own guitar,
and the pulse of Paris quickens
for Fête de la musique.

At the end of the park,
far from the Ferris wheel
and the orangery, two lovers linger
and I see there is no exit,
no way to reach the road.
The man helps his friend scale the wall—
and because I'm there, alone,
he gives me a hand. We laugh
as the wind picks up like a hungry cat,

and I walk into the old train station,
too close to closing. Now, Degas.
In the melody of an arm,
chanting from a cathedral,
crescendo of stars and sky,
I am surrounded by light,
filled by light, played by light,
and color sweeps across the canvas
like the rushing wind—
oh, to be gifted and fierce,
to see the world this way.