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 crosswords, brewing
vervain, listens out for the windchime
”ah, c'est le vent du midi”
maybe cooler tomorrow, maybe
rain— that’s a good sign.
