Summer in Bordeaux

We sit on the terrace in the evening with a loaf of bread from 
the market, and cheese from the fromagerie we pass on the way home
where the man took me to the bar next door because the woman speaks
perfect English and helped him decide that what I want is this buttery 
Roquefort and tomorrow he goes to Brittany for his annual holiday 
and I say, ‘Bonnes vacances,’ and smile and accept his best wishes 
for my next few days in Bordeaux and a safe journey home.

Life is a string of moments 
none of which is insignificant.

Being is more important than doing: Beginning the day with the walk 
and run by the river, tea and pastries on the terrace afterward, 
forgetting to eat lunch because breakfast lasted too long, red wine under white 
umbrellas, carrying food to the flat for sunset and dinner because home 
is where we want to be. 

Tonight the moon will hang 
above the tiled rooftops, more
full than it was last night
less full than it will be tomorrow.

I don’t have a bucket list because 
none of today would be on it.