January 14, 2024 (Trente-Deux And The Grace of Seasons)

L’hiver trente et un

was all cozy things:

warm bread with butter;

steamed milk with espresso;

crinkle-eyed, sleepy smiles;

blankets.

It was summer fruit galettes and winter warm coffee

held between cold palms—

a dear, familiar friend.

It was contentment and sweetness, and

I could have lived there forever.

Le printemps trente et un

was the first taste of angst:

tears and blistering anger at the deer who ate my tulips—

those grazing thieves of joy,

those blasé destroyers of beauty.

Intermingled with my ire

was joy redeemed and beauty reborn.

It was dirt road runs at golden hour;

sunbeams; frog peeps;

and the euphoria of being alive.

L’été trente et un

was mountains and valleys:

in metaphor and truth.

It was winding roads and wonderful heights

along well-worn paths of

switchbacks, backtracks, questions.

It was limoncello on chapped lips; blackberries filled with seeds; and blue stains on a perfect white dress.

It was the tension caught between comfort and change,

the first grumblings

of a well-known,

long-dormant

fault line

about to be exposed.

Automne trente et un

was running fast—hoping

to outrun change itself.

It was deep unease and a deeper yearning for more.

It was despair while eating fresh croissants.

(that despair and croissants can coexist

is surely proof of our messy humanity,

our imago dei:

complex

and full of paradox)

Trente et un melts into trente-deux:

Aujourd’hui.

Blurring the line between future and past,

trente-deux sends me scrambling

to make sense of my life, once more.

Come close,

I’ll tell you a secret:

The older I get, the less I know.

Yet, the surer I am of the things I do:

Seasons change.

Grace is strong.

And French is a difficult language.

// I’m breaking my social media sabbath to be here, today, on my 32nd day of birth. Celebrating with a semi-reflective poem, as per usual. Joyeux anniversaire à moi. Thanks for the love. 😙