KB Ballentine In Praise
Auvillar, you remind me of home – palm trees and fig, terra-cotta tiles sun melting through the showers Oh, Auvillar, you are frais – Ronsard roses larger than my fist crumbling church in the sleepy hills, the hills You are contradiction – river of death, of life, curls through you a boat, bridge brick walls and graffiti halo orange and cherry trees pilgrims weary your cobbled streets and villagers call their dogs home The drowsy moon dissolves in rain and day children hopscotch the schoolyard a ball rolls down the road, nestles into iris and calla lilies Blue sky and cottonwood shade await – faerie flakes blowing my wishes – here, not here – And you, Auvillar, wait for me to see all of you – old men dozing on benches women tossing sorrow into the Garonne