The height of summer
and the morning sun
drapes on my shoulders
warms the tips of my ears.
I meander through the
11th Arrondissement,
chance upon an
open-air market.
Walking through each
stand, a visual frenzy
awaits, beckoning me
to peruse their offerings.
My eyes alight on
berries and prawns
scallions and sandals
baguette and pears.
But my feet keep moving
There's too much to see
not quite enough time
to consider dawdling.
But the chèvre refuses
to be rushed.
I stop and pretend
to read the signs.
While my ignorant
American eyes
cannot decode French
they can see promise.
I work out that the
wee goat cheese
footballs are made
with chestnut honey.
An eager pointing
a s’il vous plait
a swipe of my Apple Watch
and the ovoid is mine.
I search, find my family.
One has grapes
Another has bread
A third has a baton of meat.
A foraged feast we have
perched on stone we break
cheese and bread
take hand to mouth,
gobble in unguarded delight.
My souvenirs from this trip
will not be parfum nor scarves.
In lieu I bring home memories
of the taste of summer bounty.
