When Love Is So Far Away
We eat ripe figs for dessert,
my friend and I. We have traveled
around the world for this
summer night together in Ramatuelle,
at the edge of a mountain vineyard.
The garden restaurant is perched so high up
in the cold mountain air, I can barely believe
that we burned in the sun
at the edge of the sea just hours ago.
Now only these few tables nestled in
among the olive trees all lit up with white lights
like stars hanging from their branches.
We shiver and sip sweet wine,
eat the delicate pink fruit on our plates.
The leaves all around us are translucent as
dragonfly wings, but unfrenzied.
Flightless. Utterly still. Waiting, I think,
for the wind to stir them to life again.