One day, our children will be able to
view fields of flowers through the cold
pixels of portable tablets and in the
faded pictures on brochures–today’s
chartreuse fields coated in apricot and
lilac petals and floral aromas that settle
on clothes will be yesterday’s, as they
immerse themselves in the virtual
realities of their digital landscapes.

But I only see paysage fleuri–the
multicolored quilt the earth dons after
the long winter, and lumière de l’aube
the dawn light that transforms the
ordinary into the extraordinary, and
sentier de chien–the trail of crushed
grass dogs leave as they chase tiny
bugs through the bloomscape.

And I’ll never forget the whispers of the
wind swaying through poppy and oat or
the warmth of another hand, fingers
entwined as we lie on morning dew,
wishing I was as serene as Giverny,
unbothered by endings and numb to the
unending march of time, a final flourish
to our longest friend.