Old Woman With a Faded Pink Shawl
There is no moon tonight.
Wine fills me with melancholy.
Movement of boats on the Seine soothe me like choral music.
Illuminated torches excite nostalgia.
The sound of an Aurignacian flute can be heard down the boulevard, or maybe only the glint of a memory.
Worn feet ache.
Tired lines tell the story of a life of curiosity in a weary smile.
An old woman knits.
She wears a faded pink shawl to cover her years.
Flour from the morning’s baking lightly coats her wooden shoes.
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