The setting sun turned the thin clouds to veins of molten gold.

In France again,
or a French kitchen at least.
These people and food amaze me.
I am silent and still as my eyes try to catch the nuance
of all this dicing, stirring, mixing and pouring.
My nose has died and gone to heaven.
Between cake and chocolate, fruit and spicy peppers,
to breathe is ecstasy

I am kept happy like a puppy
on scraps of apples and smiles.
The sun continues its downward spiral
and the clouds have gone from gold to salmon:
pink fish in a baby blue sea.

The meal is slowly assembling itself a piece at a time,
the women work and relish it, like a puzzle done twice before,
laughing and tasting all the while.

I am suddenly greedy,
snatching at these few moments like a child at fireflies on a humid summer night.
This is a fistful of instants to be cherished,
when I am happy to be myself,
dumb but not deaf,
quiet but not blind.

As the sun sets, I smile in a French kitchen full of beautiful women,
a beautiful language, and a little American desperately enjoying a night he won't forget.

AcB 10.21.00