Roses
Its 5 am.. The sky is cloudless and still,
a dark smooth lake. I can't sleep. I sit on
the terrace overlooking fields of Gloire
Dijon roses.
70 miles from Paris, I see the silently
blinking lights of jets.. off, up in the distance,
queued for landing at Orly. They seem to
be dancing with Ursa minor, the little bear.
A fog, rich and dense lays on the ground
like a bed of cotton, hiding the rose stems,
the yellow roses seem suspended in air.
As dawn comes, the sky turns red and the
old men make their way down the slopes,
tending the roses with their long shovels.
I sip my tea, chatt on the Internet and watch
their slow and patient work, as if off stage.
I imagine them, men competent and good,
season after season at this timeless work,
tending sweet flowers under morning skies
and it seems such a calm paradise.