The child leans her tiny ear
to her mother’s pregnant belly,
auburn ringlets fall across her smile
both barefooted in the sunshine
dappled light near fallen leaves
rolling heart below her ribs
drumming child’s fingers echoed.
”. . . Ce jour-la pres de la source Dieu
Sait ce que tu m’as dit. . .”
The quartet softly climbs:
“Comme les chansons qui meurent
aussitot qu’on les oublie . . .”
Round and round
like the windmills
of my heart,
Autumn’s breeze stirs the leaves above us
fleeting portrait etched forever
in the canyons of my mind.
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