Prose

Elsewhere by Jeanne Shannon

                                                     Summer
In a blue-painted room under the eaves. Dragonflies too weak to fly in the heat.
Flute music spirals upward. Strawberries fall out of tin buckets.

     Jeux Floraux de Toulouse, summer festival in honor of the Virgin
     Mary. Poems to Notre Dame des Fleurs. First prize a golden
     violet. Then prizes of silver marigold and silver églantine.

World gray-green as rain begins to fall. What emerges from the mist. Peach-
leaves recall the key of C. World that remembers rivers and Sunday afternoons.
Tree-shadowed rivers only.
                                                       Autumn
St. Emilion. Season of La Vendange. Virgo on the cusp of Libra. A crumbling
fountain under ancient trees. Odor of burning vine stems.It is very cold, this
water. It has been famous in this valley for a thousand years
.

    Hay in the fields is brittle now with frost. A meadow shining.
    In the darkness, everything a shadow of itself. Grayness with
    a purple edge. Pine trees black as oboes.

Think of Flaubert’s Novembre. But still the compass shows true north.

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2 thoughts on “Elsewhere by Jeanne Shannon

  1. The Blue Hour is happy to introduce this lovely poem by Jeanne Shannon. It features fantastic imagery and makes us think of the oddity of experience, how to two different people in two different parts of the world can have such an entirely different experience of the same season.

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