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Not in Kansas any more

April 18, 2011

The streets of France

are paved

with old

and French spring sunshine

is cut through with bubbles,

washed in orange spices, chocolate and lemon

and the French spring breeze

is scented with mint,

entwined about skyhooks in curlicues of

elaborate formation

and French lanes meander

at a pace that has forgotten (or is ignoring?)

that it needs to be somewhere

but will remember in due course

(hurry is somewhere else, can’t remember where it was lost)

and the French spring sky

forever changing but remaining the same

uses cloud to dramatic effect

(teases with the sun)

and opens as

gateway to

today

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