The Words I Will Speak

Bordeaux

This morning I'm waiting for the tram
under the glass shelter,
that doesn't protect you from the wind or the wind.
The sky is blue, bright like my eyes.
And I'm happy, a rare moment of happiness
in this world of endless hustle and bustle.
We are not bees, yet we buzz past life,
without enjoying any of the quiet moments of peace.
The tram arrives, I look for a seat once onboard
I sit in front of an elderly couple,
they are as cute as children in love,
weather, and wrinkles mapping experience upon their skin.
The tram runs along its tracks,
the sun penetrating through the windows
pounding my eyes, almost blinding me.
There is a small chateau on my left and a park surrounding it
I ran there once, I felt like a hamster on a wheel.
We head further into the city.
The center is beautiful, the epitome of French architecture.
White limestone walls and black slate roofs,
a smaller, more beautiful, and clean Paris.
This feels like little Paris, but there is no steep tower
with crisscrossed steel beams and sparkling light at the hour.
No, hear there are endless glasses of wine and restaurants.
Five to the person to be exact.
I get to the city hall and get off,
the cathedral behind in magnificent
and terrifying, a reminder of a brutal past
of oppression and hatred, god-fearing.
I walk through the streets lined with modern shops.
I hit a pair of sunglasses and lunch.
I'm going to a picnic and we'll I'm vegetarian,
so I have to bring my own lunch.
I head towards my friend's place,
the group is meeting there.
An odd international group of individuals
a Canadian, a Hungarian, two Dutch, two Fins, and a German.
Funny we all go to school together
follow the same classes, and all get along
but life has been kind to all of us.
We layout our food on the blankets
thrown on the ground haphazardly,
protecting us from the dewy grass.
Mid-January, we are all sporting short-sleeved shirts,
sunglasses, and drinking a bottle of 5 Euro wine.
The conversation switches from one odd topic to the next,
accents disappearing like worries and fears.
Our tongues are all the same and so are our stomachs.
I am grateful, these people are like a second home,
when home is an ocean away, a culture apart.
We snap pictures, hoping that this afternoon
does drain from our memory or souls.
One glass at a time, one bottle at a time,
does time steep by like tea on a rainy day.
Cold snow is a distant memory right then and there,
and so are the mountains and endless lakes.
Heaven prays it doesn't end, this love and life,
all the good things I have earned. That I've enjoyed.
Laugher and sarcasm run wild as lunch becomes evening.
Time holds out its hand, beckoning us to reality.
Patiently it extends it to hand, and reluctantly we all take it.