View of the Jardin du Luxembourg

After a series of four paintings (1908) by Susan Watkins (American, 1875 - 1913) and music by Erik Satie, Gynopedies and Gnosseries

Morning light sifts through leaves of sycamore,

beech and ash, already yellowed by September’s crisp breath

frozen in stone, forgotten heroes or Greek gods cast their absent gazes

through limbs of trees whose dappled shadows flicker on white gravel

that invades the crevices of mothers’ heels

dusting their ankles as they stroll, or sit idle, limbs enclosed in modest muslin

cross their legs elegantly on park benches overlooking the Palais

after wiping away the night’s dew with cold palms

as the sun rises at their backs, they eye children pumping their legs on the swings

a blue-jacketed boy on a tricycle pedals in circles just outside the frame

ribboned girls sail small wooden boats in the Grand Bassin

splashing each other, wetting the edges of their sleeves

before the park awakens

before vendors unlock their wares

before bonjour and ça va?, the display of flowers, fruit stands

before the accordion player finds his shaded corner

a restrained leisure has already begun

beside empty tennis courts, tourists begin to stroll along a low-set fence

dividing the world into rectangles

among hedges of rose of sharon, neatly clipped and trimmed

bégonia and pivoine confined to urns of stone

along the verdant lanes of the Médicis Fountain

the sixth arrondissement is no place for tears in the morning

as men cross briskly to offices in gray suits, dress shoes

as stoic grandmothers finger umbrellas, waiting at the gates of the small zoo

for their granddaughters to catch a glimpse of the lonely bear in his cage

chastising their grandsons who chase peacocks

with iridescent indigo tail feathers

before shepherding young ones home for déjeuner

in the apartment on the troisième étage

the table set precisely at noon

baguettes laid on spotless white cloths

cutlery aligned in right angles

along gleaming ceramic plates

in salons overlooking windows onto narrow, wrought iron balconies

framing a view of slate roofs and a sky of fogged pewter.

Life could just keep on like this:

marble and shadow, flowers and fountains

one century drifting into another

set in its habits, following its straight lines

someone always at play, at leisure

strolling in this manicured garden of life

well dressed and bien coiffée

in this symmetry of repression

in this forever morning in the park

flowers bored with their own petals:

the absence of something beneath things

beneath the unspoken, stone thoughts

of the numb god, staring vacantly through morning light

with his impenetrable gaze