It’s small, trouble-free and understated.
The fountain is nothing to write home about.
It’s just trickling water in unpolished granite.
It is dwarfed by the rising white and black basilica.
As the wisteria flourish in the shade of le Sacre-Couer,
Few, fortunate lovers and friends sit
Under the ivy-wrapped columns.
It is stuck in a city known for the more beautiful of its kind.
Les Jardins: des Plantes, du Luxembourg, des Tuileries…
This one pales in size, in acclaim, in traffic.
This is where I came then. Young, but jaded. Alone.
This is where we stand now. Still young. Hopeful. Together.
Finding this garden then, where we find the best view
Of this house of prayer, may not have been like winning life’s lottery,
But it has been like a first job-teaching me to make
My own soul’s fortune, my own future.
Returning here now, where we pose for time-lapse photos,
May be what I need to learn what to do with
The riches it taught me to find.