Archive
08/20/11
Giverny
I
Two warm mid-August days ago, a glorious Tuesday afternoon, We strolled though the Tuileries, Ate lunch, beneath robust chestnut trees, people-spectating,
Then wended our gravelly-path way toward Place de la Concorde, Stopping at l'Orangerie, to purchase tickets For an experience even our capacious daydreams couldn't have painted:
Two monumental ground-floor oval rooms, Both containing four myriad-paneled Monet murals, Whose profusely intertwining water lilies and weeping willows
Followed us around and around, grabbed hold of our beings, Enfolded our emotions, in their soft-smooth reds, greens, blues, pinks, Embraced us, with their soothingly hued yellows and whites,
Until we surrendered our senses, sensibilities, spirits, our souls, To the magical abstraction of the whole creation, Then blended into the impressionistic essence of our shared serenity.
II
Now, driving through the countryside, forty miles outside Paris, We arrive at the Normandy village of Giverny And are invited into the quietude of Claude Monet's private domain,
Allowed, with his unspoken, unwritten, unstroked permission, To witness the glistening dew lift, invisibly, From the drooping willows' slender leaves, the floating lilies' petals,
Step into his rustic house, for a worshipful visit, Admire his hanging Utamaro, Hiroshige, and Hokusai woodblock prints, Assimilate the space that provided succor, sanctuary for his genius.
For three hours, we roam the secluded purlieus, Capturing its tranquillity, in the unthreatening nets of our gazes, Wandering amidst the jardins' lush abundance,
Returning, finally, to where we first immersed ourselves in the estate: Amidst the bamboo and willow trees, the two Japanese bridges — The pool, teeming with nénuphars we hear breathing, whispering to us.
08/20/11
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