Monet’s ‘Water Lilies’ at L’Orangerie
I spent months in battle with a city
that smelt of home but had no place
for a young American at large; all grey walls
and closed elaborate doors– gates
that offered a glimpse into lives
that never asked to be shared.
Parcs, sans any sign of life, left wanting
Me, that could not live there
My legs striding past en route to
whatever
tick-tocking through the days.
At the little round building
I stepped into the rotunda
paid my fee, made my way
along with a small crowd–
the weather remained very cold–
and stared into Summer.
Big, they are, walls of promise
blues of sweet water, reflected skies;
and the buds, the blooms, the lilies-
Oh! The lilies!
There are benches, and I sat there
with those flowers blurred in my sight
my shelly armor falling away
clattering to the white marble floor.
The attendants came by quite often
to sweep away these shards
which were shed by most of the guests;
the young mothers, the tourists, the
lunchtime office men, the American
who would not go home.
