Saint-Paul de Vence

YESTERDAY I GOT LOST IN A BREEZE.
BEING AN ARIES, I WAS READY TO POUNCE
ON THE FIRST WARM CLUE THAT SPRING
MAY BE IN THE AIR.
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I know that it's still the middle of February, but
Mother Nature has been slipping in brazen
enticements to those of us who are susceptable to seduction.
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There I was, sniffing the air like a demented groundhog
shedding his shadow. I became unhinged convincing
myself that springtime is around the corner.
Well, prove to me that it's not!
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And then I started looking for peaches, my well known addiction.
And then I started dreaming of the Peaches of St. Paul.
I got lost in that yearning, but found some relief by
reading for myself the last stanza of the poem I posted
several weeks ago, the very Peaches of Saint-Paul.
I know it was a tease not to include it, but then I never
really posted the beginning either. Another time.
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Whatever brings me closer to Spring, to Summer....
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xxxxxxxxxxxlast stanza:
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxOne glowed with a fever
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxin my cupped hands.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxI brushed its pre-pubescent fuzz
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxagainst your cheek, and it became
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxa secret kiss
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxthat no one saw.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxBut I saved the first bite for me.
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxfrom "Two Ghosts" poems/ Lyn Rochelle

Peaches

xxxxxxxxxxxx I'm dreaming of summer as

I block the powdery wind that carries

a February snow.

Up in the tree, ice pushes down on a bough.

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That same tree, if I'm patient, will yield shade

in August and let me pull a ripened warm peach

from its hold.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxI remember another time of peaches...

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xxxxxxxxxxx Here's an exerpt from a poem I wrote

because I love peaches....

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Peaches of Saint-Paul

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xxxxxxxxx.....Bells suddenly roused us from the chilly grotto.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx We ran down cobbled steps,

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx embracing our brief mortality, and found

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx Rue Verdalette. Following the map

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx we turned right at the telephone pole.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx And full below was Saint-Paul de Vence,

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx washed by the Provencal sea.

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A vendor's cart,

just wheeled into the shade, displayed

avacados, alongside daisies.

Melons were cut open, their pale green flesh

too pungent, summoning

a rush of fruit flies.

And a dozen peaches

ripened to a dazzling pink......

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from "Two Ghosts", a book of poetry.

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