Will our eyes meet?

I dwell between river and mountain
   Earth and sky.
The wind blows from the west.

Early breakfasts in a warm café
   The chatter of galvanised rain.
Feeling the sun warm my back
   On a cold winter’s day.
People-watching in spring.
Sorbet sold on a summer shady street.

Baked bread and basil tomatoes.
Café conversations spilling over the sidewalk.
Fresh strawberries in vegetable windows.
The scent of concrete in a summer rain.

A woolen scarf and dry feet
Holding a warm baguette.
I walk over tickled stone
I smell stretching wood and
   Sit beside pooling glass.

Let the shadows lengthen, I will listen.

Woven stairs and watchful balconies.
Stained-glass in peeling frames.
Wrinkled stone and fired earth.
Shared meals around old tables.

The liquor of darkness draws me in.
Hands and feet.
I dream our paths will cross again.

- Owen A. Rose, 2001