The last time I went to Paris it was spring, and flower petals fell onto the sidewalks and streets making them pink and white and slick, waiting to be crushed beneath Italian Leather Boots and German sports cars and the bicycle tires of boys carrying bags of baguettes. English humor was in, and brooding French musicians sat on sidewalks in Montartre playing brooding French music while the sky dimmed and lights sparked and sparkled on La Seine and glittered in puddles—green and blue and yellow and orange. There are always puddles in Paris, right? They were there that day, and every day since. Puddles and puddles for lovers to walk by and through and dance in if need be, and why not? Why not need be? It is Paris. It is spring, and petals are falling, even in the night, the pink and the white. And the music is still there, like the silk of a spider gliding on a breeze, and everywhere is the smell of old. Old buildings, old bridges, old stones and stories. Old dreams. There are old clothes strung over old streets, and they look like prayer flags, each petal of cloth waving a wish into the breeze.
Each petal of cloth waving a wish into the breeze.