My first morning in Paris, I was briskly shooed out of our shared apartment with a moral charge to get café creme, write in my journal and watch French people. Karen is going to have tea and oatmeal. I loathe oatmeal and taking orders. And more so, demands to know my Plans-for-the-Day before I’ve hadContinue reading “Le Café”
Something over the shoulder Out the screen door Interrupts our chatter I pounce to nab the light Ideas are like that.
~ or how a storm is like a writing impulse. Watching the storm come up the hill from the sea, we’re on the deck, after Scrabble and walking in the wildflower twilight. Sometimes an idea invades like that. Sipping Vermouth rouge with a lemon twist, we see the thin curtains of rainfall at the coast.Continue reading “La cabine à Riboux”