‘Thought is all light, and publishes itself to the universe. It will speak.’
—Emerson
In morning, everything seems possible.
The green branches billow down cold lanes.
Tall apartments cup hands towards the coming sun.
A limestone city
daubed in dew
lies unread as a sheet.
I stoke the flames of
sequent strides
as the loving light
grows ever
grander whilst
reaching Notre Dame.
Clouds smear like
crimson charcoal
upon the open sketch.
For is not each day
a work of art,
an exchange of poetry?
Paris. How sweet
the name sprouting
upon rivers.
So morning walks
are but pilgrimages to promised lands
making poets and prophets of us all.
