This charming street is descending now
With gravity quickening our step.
Ahead, I see our route curve north,
And while I cannot be certain,
I sense we approach the edge of town.
Still, if true, there’s little to be done
But to slow our pace, hold hands firmly,
And see our pleasant stroll to its end.
The sun as well rises
On the narrowest of streets –
Promise ever anew.
First bright sightings of the shops
On Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Most entice sojourners
When occurring within
The tunnel’s enclosing twilight.
The sun has risen above the roof lines of Arles.
The woman turns onto Rue du Cloître.
She cradles the portfolio in the crook of her arm.
The abbot awaits beyond the arched gate at the Théâtre Antique.
Having lost their way as they wandered the winding streets of Arles during the early morning, they regained their bearings when the buildings ahead on Rue Portagnel brightened, as if freshly painted by the rising sun.
Une vieille clé ouvre une vieille porte ;
Des nouveaux jeans sont en promotion à l’intérieur –
Un nouveau jour s’est levé sur une vieille place.
An old key opens an old door;
New jeans are on sale inside –
A new day begins in an old square.
This morning at breakfast, upon tasting a slice of Compté cheese for the first time in 47 years, I ambled down a narrow street of worn stones in walled Besançon; I distinguished the subtle differences in a five-mushroom entrée at Les Tables D’antan; I perceived the faint swish of Bourgogne in mouths at a tasting in a cave, I inhaled the fresh sweetness of grass in the field outside the farmhouse where I slept; I clapped the white chalk dust from my hand as I ended my class at the Centre de Linguistique.
Upon looking at the clock on the stove, I realized that I was running a little late; I washed down the Compté with the last of my coffee and put my cup and dish in the sink; I rewrapped the cheese and returned it to the refrigerator; I dressed as I planned my day.
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