Emerson

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrant 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 a affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.
Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.