Missing

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrent one,
I am torn between two worlds:
Baudelaire's sad Paris,
changed and still changing
as he mopes up and down
Place du Carrousel
looking for signs of youth;

and my bouncing daughter:
pants too long, cuffs slipped over her tiny heels,
holding onto an overhead rail,
practicing her jump
over and over,
cooing and cooing,
laughing,
making happy noises.

Two worlds, a century-and-a-half apart,
a continent apart,
aren't that different.
Charles and I both long for an earlier time
when buildings and babies
were younger;
streets and siblings
were newer;

But what he and I don't realize,
is that if we just look upward,
toward the sun,
our objects of affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.

Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.