The Hour in May
by Paulette Demers Turco

When dew was on the meadow at the break of dawn,
a crimson cardinal lilting on a limb nearby,
camouflaged by blossoms on the tulip tree,

the sky becoming powder blue, her gaze was drawn
beyond the garden’s purple hyacinths. So why
were far horizons not the thoughts she shared with me

that hour, her hand in mine and her expression wan?
I realized that she had no more need to try
to meet the morning sky beyond the pane. My plea

remained the same as we’d agreed at the Sorbonne,
the Opera, Versailles, our dream trip to defy
the limits of mortality–our Paris spree.

Her breath waned. As in La bohéme–I felt certain–
she’s Mimi, I’m Rodolfo at the final curtain.



 

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