We’ve inscribed and secured our love padlock
on the bridge’s railing, kissed softly and
deeply in one long breath, our inner clock
strolling us now along narrow dark bands
of wood toward the Louvre, the walkway’s lined trees
and lamp posts scattered with glowing Christmas.
Artists display their paintings, say they’ll please
as gifts for friends. A rebel pair we pass
picnic on a bench, ritual confined
mainly to summer. Gazing at the Seine,
we see a party boat, revelers wined
and dancing. Near shore, a duck flock complains,
crowds to keep warm. They look
like rice pilaf,
you muse. We cuddle like kittens and laugh.
Roger Armbrust
December 30,
2012
