Avenue de Provence
sticky hands planted a raspberry bush
in a stubborn garden, tended
by the ones that made mine
by yellow limestone walls,
by foundations poured,
by one gone before his time
she prays to curling photographs
solves steady crossed words, brewing vervain,
listening out for the windchime.
”ah, c'est le vent du midi”
maybe cooler tomorrow,
maybe rain, that’s a good sign.
