Les Nymphéas de Monet
Something akin to blindness occurs
stepping into the blue cataracts of water
that spill through the elliptical rooms
of Musée de L’Orangerie. Eyes,
like lungs of a diver, endure only
for a few emerald moments before
they must blink away liquid and re-submerge
beneath a lily pad. Swimming slowly,
we bathe in amethyst pools, blur into
the mirror of clouds reflected on cobalt.
As willows sway over bedewed clusters
of pink and white, all is reflection. The sun sets
and we wake into the piquant Giverny morning
where we go to dream, and where we hope to die.
You can find this poem and other about Paris in Lune de Miel. The read gardens are not easily comparable to the murals at the museum. Not comparable in the least, two completely different experiences. A good place to die, indeed.
Amy Nawrocki 